


Deal with a Devil

by dilangley



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Voldemort, F/M, Humor, Stinking Rich Bachelor Draco, Young Professional Ginny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-07
Updated: 2016-11-05
Packaged: 2018-06-07 00:42:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 45,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6777823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dilangley/pseuds/dilangley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ginny Weasley knew better than to listen to Draco Malfoy. He was trouble, and she knew it. It didn't matter how handsome he was or how wickedly his eyes looked at her. Dealing with him was like dealing with... well, a devil!</p><p>Otherwise known as a tale in which Draco Malfoy makes a bet that he can sleep with Ginevra Weasley.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Banter and Bets

"Wait… _how_ much?" Ginny Weasley's jaw was hanging open. She knew she shouldn't have let him in here. Actually, thinking about it, she hadn't let him in here. He had knocked on her office door and asked if he could come in, she had said no, and he had come in anyway. Thinking about more, she realized that this was the only thing she had contributed to the conversation besides demands that he leave. He obviously had noticed the same thing because he was smirking at her, leaning forward to prop his elbows on his knees.

He told her the amount again.

Her mouth stayed agape.

"You're kidding me. You've got to be." She half-stammered this statement, and he shook his head coolly. "Bloody hell, you're not kidding me?"

"No, Miss Weasley, I am not kidding you." He was looking at her as if she were a bit dense, but he didn't betray any signs of joking. "My friends are not the sort to dally around."

"I guess not."

Draco Malfoy had walked into her office to inform her that his friends had bet her an obscene amount of money that he couldn't nail her. As if this wasn't shocking enough, here she was, actually thinking about the situation. It had to be leftover hormones from her teenage years or something.

Ginevra Weasley had not had a good year; being 25 was not all it was cracked up to be. Her job was deadbeat -- she was just a pretty face to file paperwork for the Ministry of Magic -- her love life was nonexistent, and her closest friendships had dissolved into vindictive, bitter spats. She supposed the beginning of all this had been the day she and Ron had discovered that Harry and Hermione were banging after hours. Apparently, Aurors and nurses had an animal attraction for one another that "could not be ignored." Ron had been heartbroken; Ginny, however, had been murderous. She had gone after Harry with a metal spatula and her bare hands, offering to perform surgery on him that would involve reaching down his throat and pulling out his testicles the long way. Perhaps it had not been one of her prouder moments.

Anyway, it had been a while since then, but she couldn't honestly say that anything had gotten peachy. Things had been mundane at best, and this wasn't a sign that prospects were looking up. After all, people making bets regarding the potential sordid affairs of you and your enemies was not a positive thing. She looked at her enemy for a moment.

He was sitting on the leather chair across from her desk with a look of absolute calm on his face. He gazed at her proprietarily, even though she had given him no encouragement and had not even seen him since they left Hogwarts. At Hogwarts, he had been arrogant, obnoxious, and if she had asked him the time of day, he would have deemed himself too high above her to even deign to hear the question. Now she looked at him to see the man whom the boy had become. His blue eyes were so pale that they appeared grey, bright and intriguing in the pale set of his chiseled features, with a strong jaw and classic profile. His hair was still blonde but it had darkened once his teenage years had passed, and he was tall, long legs resting demurely in front of him. He was the picture of poise; the extremely attractive picture of poise.

 _Why didn't I invest in ugly enemies?_ She thought forlornly, twisting a lock of red hair around her finger. _Instead I pick enemies that are hotter than any of my boyfriends, my boyfriends, who are cheating scum, who sleep with women who aren't as pretty as me._

"Are you planning on giving me an answer? I could have been underhanded and tried to seduce you, but instead, I'm offering this to you as a business endeavor." His voice slipped out as smooth and cool as Italian silk. She frowned.

"I shouldn't even have to answer you. Of course the answer is no," she replied even as her mind screamed, _A third party is willing to pay huge money for you to have sex with a gorgeous man, and you're saying no?_

"I was hoping your answer would be yes. I'm being more than fair about this."

"Sex isn't about fairness!" She tossed her hands in the air in disbelief. "It's about…well, it's sex!"

"I know what sex is," Draco echoed, raising an eyebrow as if he was not seeing her point. She watched his lithe fingers drum lazily on his knee. _I bet you do,_ she thought, imagining those capable-looking fingers getting a hold of her.

What she said aloud was "I'm not going to have sex with you so that you can win some bet."

"How are you going to have sex with me?" His look was sly.

"I'm not!" She smacked her hand against the polished mahogany of her desk.

"Would you like to go out to dinner with me tonight?"

"I'm not going to have sex with--" She began explosively and stopped just as quickly. "Wait, what?"

He repeated himself.

"Dinner? What, so you can try to seduce me?"

"Perhaps, but you know exactly what I'll be trying to do, so you can defend yourself. Look, Miss Weasley, I have one month to win this bet. They're giving me a month. Why don't you do the same thing? If the month ends and I haven't gotten a shag, then the end, no hard feelings. If the month ends and I have shagged you, we're both a little richer. It's a heavenly deal."

"Heavenly deals don't exist with the devil," she muttered, hazel eyes narrowed.

"I think you are giving me a bit too much credit. I'm hardly the devil."

"No, you're worse. You're a Malfoy." There was a pause where their eyes met. Ginny imagined evil music playing. Any second now he was going to start delivering an evil laugh. She wondered what he would look like throwing back his head and unleashing a good rowdy "Muhuhahahaha."

Instead of delivering on his villainy, Draco stood up, stretching out his legs and rolling his shoulders once as if they were kinked. "So I will see you tonight at Kniltholder's?"

Her jaw dropped again; Kniltholder's was a staggeringly expensive restaurant where the wizarding world's rich, famous, and influential liked to go to play and where everyone else need not bother trying to get a reservation. Harry had once tried to take her there for their anniversary, to no avail. Anyone who went to Kniltholder's on a weeknight first date had Galleons to spare. 

"Why exactly did you take this bet again?"

"It's a matter of pride, Miss Weasley. I will see you around eight."

He stepped out of her office, and she sagged in her chair, dropping her face into her hands. She couldn't believe she was considering this. This was the most ridiculous thing ever. _And to think, I'm the normal one in my family._

\----------------------

Ginny went to The Burrow once a week, one of Mum's rules for her gaggle of children. Right now, it was the last place in the world she wanted to be. Arriving had been pleasant enough, but quickly, she had realized it was no ordinary night. Instead it was another of the nights in which her parents attempted to guide her into Reconciliation. So devout were they in their love of Harry Potter -- Hogwarts sweetheart, Quidditch star, gentleman, and famed Auror -- that they seemed to forget he had put his penis inside someone else while dating their daughter. They had not only invited him over for dinner but had graciously allowed him to bring Hermione along, conveniently forgetting that it had been her vagina into which Harry's penis had wandered. The pair of them were seated on the couch in the living room, smiling to greet her when she crossed the threshold into the house. 

Ron, who was now dating an exceptionally sweet woman named Miranda, had forgiven his former best friend and ex-love-of-his-life almost completely, and he accepted their presence in the living room on Family Night as if it were normal. It Right now, in ripped hose and a wrinkled skirt and generally disgruntled mood, Ginny was especially ill-equipped to deal with this nonsense.

Ron sat on the armchair, so Ginny had been forced to take a seat on the couch beside the lovebirds while her mum went to get tea. Harry's right hand rested on his left leg, getting as far away from Ginny as possible, while his left hand rested casually on Hermione's knee. Ginny battled an irrational desire to turn the offending appendage into a toad.

"Rough day, Gin?" Harry tried out sympathy. She shot him a vicious look.

"Look like hell, do I, Potter?" Her voice dripped venom, and he shook his head, not making another attempt at camaraderie.

"You just look tired," Ron placated, but Ginny instead tucked away Harry's words to fan her personal flame of bitterness in moments where it seemed like it might go out. Molly Weasley stepped back into the room, tea tray floating in front of her, and she distributed a cup to each person before sitting down on the ottoman in front of Ron.

"How was your day, Ginny?" Molly asked, a touch of empathy affected into her tone. Ginny watched her mother's eyes take in her messy appearance with mild disapproval. She could almost hear the disappointment and the judgment. After all, Hermione had to work much harder on her bushy, mousy hair to make it look presentable and yet hers rested sleekly in its bun. Ginny remembered the flyaway look of her curls in the mirror before she had flushed out of the Ministry for the day. Maybe it wouldn't have killed her to run a brush through it. Self-blame wasn't her style though.

"Look like hell, do I, Mum?" She replied coolly.

Molly looked a little shocked, swallowing her mouthful of tea and raising an eyebrow.

"Merlin's beard, do you always have to be so grouchy?" Ron looked annoyed now. Ginny figured this meant that Miranda was coming. He always liked to pretend that the Weasleys were normal when Miranda was coming whereas Ginny thought it more appropriate to help the poor woman see the madness that ran in this gene pool.

"Maybe she's PMSing." This announcement came from across the room, and they all looked up to see Fred and George walking through the living room door. The brothers wore matching blue pants and Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes shirts. "Fred acts that way when he's PMSing."

"You're a wanker," Fred replied, bumping his shoulder against George's. They both laughed, and even Ginny, in her current funk, had to smile. It was little wonder they ran such a successful joke shop; they had yet to meet a situation without humor. Ginny adored them because they never got on her case about being pissed off. They just made her smile instead.

"No, she's not PMSing. She just got off her period last week," Molly corrected, counting out weeks silently on her fingers, and Ginny turned to look at her. She wondered if her eyes were lit with real flames or if her irritation could actually still be invisible.

"Oh, that would explain why she was a real bitch during dinner last Friday," Fred said, winking at her. Ginny glared at him as well and thought, _You are not helping, Stinky._

"Hard to be cheery when you're menstruating," Hermione added, deciding to finally contribute to the conversation. She leaned forward to make eye contact with Ginny around Harry. This unwise decision earned her a nasty look from her ex-friend.

"That is a serious invasion of privacy," Ginny announced loudly. "You all are a serious invasion of privacy."

"Inside voice, Ginny," Molly observed, taking a sip of her tea. Chilly silence descended, and Ginny watched Ron glance towards the empty fireplace, obviously hoping that Miranda would appear in this moment of quiet rather than during an argument over his sister's menstrual cycle.

"Seems to me that we have put little Ginny in a bad mood. We truly are a sadistic bunch." George tossed his lanky frame on the arm of the sofa. He leaned over and slung an arm over his baby sister's shoulders. "Why are we picking on you tonight, Gin? Fred and I missed the beginning. How'd you open yourself up as the butt of our family's humor?"

Ginny looked around the room at her mother who was looking at her with mild concern; at the twins who were grinning and looking for any excuse to tease her; at Ron, who was trying to make things perfect for his new girlfriend; and at her ex-boyfriend who was squirming as Hermione whispered something in his ear when she thought no one was looking. Ginny felt a surge of dark, hot satisfaction as she realized she had perfect ammunition just waiting to be fired. She grinned.

"They're just upset that I have a date with Draco Malfoy tonight," she purred, rising to her feet and shrugging off George's arm. "I'd best be on my way before I'm late. Thanks for the tea, Mum. Hope you're not talking dirty to Harry on our couch, Hermione. That's disrespectful."

She Disapparated before she could even fully appreciate the six dropped jaws around her.

\------------------

Ginny looked at her reflection in the steamed-up mirror, frowning. She had no idea what she was doing. She didn't have anything to wear to Kniltholder's. It was Kniltholder's! It wasn't like she could throw on something casual and go eat a burger. When eating at that place, she was going to have to know which fork to use. Sometimes, in her apartment, she ate with a spoon because she couldn't find a fork. She had no business going somewhere with the hubris to put out four forks for one meal.

Trailing her fingers through some of her soaking wet red hair, she let her panicky thoughts race over who she was going to dinner with: Draco Malfoy. She had seen him on the cover of a magazine lately; it had been a sort of 'Look at hot, rich British bachelors' issue, but still, he had been on the cover. Of a magazine. Not only had she never been on the cover of a magazine, but she often passed them up in the market because they cost too much. He had looked good on that cover, too. At the time, she had been frowning and thinking that he was smarmy bastard who didn't deserve the coverage, but after being within a few feet of him this afternoon, she knew that he wasn't all hype. He had a… a definite flair. She let out a sigh. Flair was just one word for it.

 _Sexy as hell is another,_ her mind added.

She walked into her bedroom, towel-wrapped around her to catch stray drops, and flipped through the clothes in her closet. She didn't have anything she could wear out to dinner at Kniltholder's with Draco Malfoy. She was a loony for thinking she could pull this off. One moment of extreme annoyance with her family did not equal an attire ready for an evening out with Draco Malfoy at a 5-star restaurant. She had only agreed to this whole charade because Draco had made it sound like a no-lose situation earlier.

 _And because I wouldn't mind spending an evening with Draco Malfoy trying everything he has to seduce me,_ she thought to herself wickedly.

Holding out a bright green dress that looked like it belonged at a summer picnic, she groaned. The selection in here -- in her closet -- was pathetic. She shook her head.

"Who am I kidding? I don't have anything to wear." She plopped down on the bed ungracefully. She heard a Pop!, and suddenly, standing in front of her, was the devil himself. Her jaw fell open, and a full-bodied horror scream escaped before she was able to realize there was no danger.

"That's a very unbecoming sound, Ginevra," Draco Malfoy said, blue eyes giving her an once-over, taking in her damp hair, her towel, and everything it didn't cover. Then those blue eyes gave her a twice-over, and then they did one better and made it a thrice-over. Her face turned the color of her hair as she let loose another scream.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN MY HOME? GET OUT!" She hollered, jumping to her feet as she gripped the top of the towel for stabilization. He was wearing a crisp, snow-white shirt that managed to look expensive without any embellishment at all and a tailored black blazer. His hair was neat, his expression cool, and even his shoes looked good. She was all too aware of the fact that she was sitting on her unmade bed in an old, ratty towel. He seemed to be aware of that, too. She glanced down at the wide bleach stain on the towel, resting right over her left boob. The look might be considered art deco in some circles.

"You keep telling me to get out. Have you considered working on your hospitality?"

"YOU SAID EIGHT O'CLOCK AT THE RESTAURANT!" She stuck with the yelling and earned herself an exasperated eyebrow raise from her guest.

"I said no such thing. I said I would see you around eight o'clock. It's 7:30. Close enough." He shrugged his shoulders, and she glared daggers at him. So unruffled was he that she actually rearranged her face into an expression she hoped was more menacing. He seemed unfazed.

"Get out of my room and my house, and I will be at the restaurant eventually," she finally said, trying the calm tactic since the manic one and failed. He smiled but seemed equally unmoved by her attempt at sounding rational.

"They won't let you in without me," he mused lazily, walking over to her closet. He began to skim his fingers over the clothes there, occasionally lingering on a particular fabric. The invasion of privacy did not bother her nearly as much as the judgment she knew had to be flitting through his mind as he touched the cheap material and saw the childish patterns she had a tendency to favor outside of work.

"Then meet me outside!"

"I'm not standing outside waiting for you. Get dressed, and we'll go now. I won't watch you change, no matter how curious I am what is lurking under that towel." Her stomach flipped once, nerves kicking up enthusiastically at his implication. There was a long silence, and he looked at her without blinking, obviously wondering why she wasn't replying. She tugged at a lock of red hair and looked away.

"Do you not want to get dressed?" He asked, and she frowned at him. A corner of his mouth lifted slyly. "I'm fully supportive of that idea, but it seems a bit uncharacteristic."

"I don't have anything to wear," she muttered finally, barely audible.

"I didn't quite catch that." He smirked at her.

"I don't have anything to wear," she repeated a little louder. He grinned with a sort of twisted satisfaction. _You are a smarmy bastard,_ she insulted him telepathically just as she had when she had seen him on the cover of that magazine.

"I'm glad you admit it. I was just noticing that your closet was lacking in Kniltholder's style of dress. Put something on for now. We'll go get you something to wear."

"You'll buy me something to wear?" She gaped at him again. At this rate, she was going to dislocate her jaw before this day was over.

"Of course I will. I'm not a stingy person." He feigned shock at her surprise.

She blinked at him several times, looking like a startled toad, before standing up. She opened a drawer and grabbed underwear and a bra, hiding them from his view so he did not see that they were both plain, dingy white cotton. Just to be difficult, she grabbed a pair of sweatpants and a tee-shirt before ducking into the bathroom. She emerged a few minutes later, dressed. Her hair was dry, but not exactly done; it was in messy curls and waves. One curl bounced off her eye, and she pushed it away in frustration.

"Get out your wallet, buddy," she said darkly. "I'm going to break the bank."

"Probably are." His tone accepted her hostility so affably that she faltered momentarily. Her family's usual outrage or sympathy at her temper caused it to flare, but she did not know how to react to this easy acceptance. Why was he not rattled by her gift for bitchiness?

"Oh, I definitely am. We're getting the most expensive dress there."

"Fine with me."

"You're taking the fact that you are about to be bankrupt very calmly."

"I probably am. See, I failed to mention one little thing about your dress." He slipped a hand to her elbow, fingers wrapping surprisingly gently through the curve of her arm.

"What's that?" She lost control of her grumpy tone, disarmed by the gentle brush of skin on skin.

"I get to pick it out."

\---------------------

"This one is your size," Draco said, holding up a slinky brown dress that left nothing to the imagination. The cut-out keyhole at the cleavage level bordered on pornographic. She laughed at him, and he adopted a false wounded expression. He looked even more attractive standing here with sleek, expensive fabrics draped over his arm. There was something undeniably sexy about him picking up dresses so lovely and openly imagining her in them.

"Yeah right. Then, after dinner, you can put me on the street corner and pass me off as a hooker to earn back both the cost of dress and dinner."

"Or I could take you home myself, and we'd both get paid."

She rolled her eyes even as her thoughts said, _Good idea!_ She ignored her thoughts; they had a tendency to be impulsive.

She and Draco were in a clothing store that would have barred her at the door without him. Almost instantly, she had regretted her petulant choice of attire. Sweatpants had no place in this store. Even the employees were higher class than she was, and they kept looking down their nose at her when they weren't absolutely drooling over Draco. They swooned every time he breathed, and all but bent over to kiss his butt when he spoke to them. Ginny couldn't decide whether to be disgruntled by their apparent disrespect towards her or not; after all, they had no way of knowing that she and Draco weren't really together, so they were just proving themselves as hussies. Classy hussies, but hussies nonetheless.

Even though the situation was less than ideal, Ginny did feel like a little girl who had been swept into a fairy tale, surrounded by all these beautiful dresses. Sure, Draco was the devil, not a prince, but the dresses were definitely princess-like. She picked up a blue floor-length, admiring it, and she heard a sound of disapproval.

"If I wanted you to look like a nun, I would have taken you somewhere else." He placed his hand over hers and guided the dress back onto its hanger.

"It's elegant."

"It's modest."

"Modest is a good adjective." She felt that she was pointing out the obvious.

"Not in my vocabulary."

They stared each other down, and finally, she grunted and walked over to another section to peruse the hundreds of "little black dresses." She was scrutinizing one when she heard his voice behind her.

"Try this one on."

She turned to look, and Draco Malfoy was holding up a green dress, the exact jewel shade of a perfectly cut emerald. Her eyes lit up, and she grinned despite herself.

"Okay." She agreed with a nod, swooping over and taking it from him. The moment of eagerness faded as she approached one of the employees to ask to be let into a dressing room. The woman was a slim blonde with a surly, snobbish expression.

"May I try this on?" Ginny attempted to sound friendly. The woman didn't reply, but she walked over to a dressing room and unlocked it with a little snort of derision.

"Well then." Ginny snorted back childishly as she stepped in and shut the door. Shedding her sweats and tee-shirt, she slid the dress on gently, careful not to look in the mirror until it was all positioned. She turned to look with a sense of anticipation, and when she saw herself, her eyes widened. The halter-style fastenings made her sensual, turning her collarbone into an appealing plane of skin and her shoulders into soft, inviting curves. The fit of the dress accentuated the best of her shape, and the fabric flirted with the tops of her knees, making it coy without being prudish in the least. _I'm a bombshell,_ she thought, twirling and giving herself come-hither eyes in the mirror..

 _The devil has damn good taste,_ she observed with a grin at her reflection.

"Do I get to see it?" She heard Draco's voice outside the door, and she could already tell that he knew he'd picked a good one. She opened the door. He looked at her and gave her another one of those thrice-overs, admiring her from top to bottom in such a way that she knew he wanted her to see exactly what he was thinking. Goosebumps popped out on her skin, and she knew he saw those too.

"You look good in it. I bet you look better out of it. Why don't you let me in there to find out?"

"And to think I was just about to thank you."

"Sarcasm is unflattering in a woman."

"According to you, everything I do is un-something," she retorted.

"You are difficult. Do you realize that?" He looked charmed rather than frustrated by this fact.

"I've been told."

"Mr. Malfoy…" A voice suddenly crooned at his elbow, and he turned to look at the employee who was speaking to him. Ginny took this as a moment to glance at the price tag dangling from her dress. The numbers leapt out at her in their bold, swirling script. She gulped. It cost more than she made in six months.

"-take it. Here's my card." Ginny saw him handing the woman his credit card, and horror rose up.

"Wait!" She held out the tag for him to see. The women sniggered at her. He looked confused.

"What?" He said, not even looking down at the tag.

"Look at the price!" She hissed. _Just don't freak out when you realize how much you almost spent!_ Her thoughts urged silently.

"I know how much it costs. I picked it out, remember?" He shrugged, took the tag from her hand, and ripped the small plastic line that held it to the dress. He crumpled the tag and handed it to the waiting employee whose jealousy and admiration battled on hr face.

"Holy God! Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!" She exclaimed as he shooed the women off with his credit card.

"Should you really be talking to them while you're with me?"

"Guess not," she muttered, still feeling air-deprived.

The dress was hers. It was the most expensive clothing article she had ever even tried on, let alone owned. She felt like she couldn't breathe. She owed him. He had just bought her the most beautiful thing she owned. If she accepted this, she had to show him at least a modicum of kindness. She could not use him as a punching bag for her irritable side, could not guiltlessly jab at him throughout dinner. This dress was a gift from the devil. She was sealing her fate. She wouldn't be able to just ditch him after this. Her conscience would never let her live it down. _You slimy weasel. You dirty ferret. This dress is an underhanded bid for my compliance…and so pretty on me…_

"No strings attached," he assured her with a sly smile.

"To hell you say." She put a hand to her head, massaging her temple. "Quick. Take me to Kniltholder's. I think my blood sugar's dropping."

"You're just in awe of my generosity."

"Whatever you say, Satan."

\-------------------

Kniltholder's stunned; it oozed charm and perfection from the very walls. They were led to a table near the kitchen and greeted with glasses of wine in glittering crystal goblets. When she took a sip, she wished she had the knowledge to say something intelligent about the wine besides that it was probably better quality than the boxed stuff she usually bought. Draco looked at home at the table, patiently explaining to her that there was no menu here. The chef would simply send out courses that matched Draco's usual tastes. He informed her of this while leaning back slightly in his chair, lounging amidst the finery with that comfort only those born wealthy can possess. She smoothed a wrinkle out of the white tablecloth and prayed the food would not have red sauce. Her nervousness destined her for at least one spill this meal.

Unlike the employees at the store, the waiters and the hostess treated her like she was a goddess. She knew it was just because she was with Draco Malfoy, but she didn't care. It made her feel radiant. When the first course came, she ate every bite of the crisp, cold arugula salad, but by the fourth course, she had caught the rhythm of the meal, tasting and savoring but not finishing so that she could have room for more. So this was how the rich and famous and beautiful ate.

"This food is wonderful," she observed, swallowing a bite of brie and mushroom pate. Draco nodded noncommittally, sipping his second glass of wine. After a pause, she sighed gently. "Let's talk business,"

He raised an eyebrow. "Let's talk dirty," he countered, and she flushed crimson. As her imagination ran away with that, she frowned at him. He sighed. "Fine. Let's talk business."

"I'm willing to give you a month because I like eating good food and wearing pretty dresses and being envied," she said, twirling her fork in her rice. A few pieces ended up flinging onto the table. He shook his head, reaching over to pick them up and drop them back on her plate. She appreciated that he seemed to know the Five-Second Rule, the unofficial religion of large, poor families.

"No. You're willing to give me a month because you want me."

"Nope. Wrong." She lied because it would never do to swell that handsome head of his.

"So I get a month. Does your family get to know?"

"Yep. They're the first to know. I like pissing them off." She thought of the beautiful moment in which she had dropped the news about tonight's dinner. She was going to have a month's worth of that pleasure. That alone almost made it worth denying herself the pleasure of shagging Draco.

"Do we treat it like a normal relationship?"

"As normal as possible."

"That means we should have sex tonight," he said with a cool grin. She laughed.

"Nice try, Lucifer."

"Had to give it a shot."

"So, we're dating now. For a month." She felt that reminding herself of the time frame as often as possible might keep her from feeling too at home in places like Kniltholder's.

"For sex."

"For money."

"For fun."

They looked at each other, and he lifted the fork from her fingers, setting it on the table. "Let's shake on it, Miss Weasley."

He extended his hand; she folded hers into it, sealing her fate, making her deal with the devil.

"I must say I didn't expect you to be so open to this plan. You do realize that for a month you're going to have to deal with being a part of my world," he commented, not letting go of her hand and looking absolute wicked. She smiled and shrugged her shoulders lightly.

"What can I say? I hear hell is nice this time of year."

The pleased delight flickering on his face made her want to keep saying ridiculous quips just to keep delighting him. Gods, he was dangerous.


	2. Propositions and Poor Choices

Knowing that a month of fancy dining, fun, and a freakin' gorgeous male lay ahead of her, Ginny Weasley walked into the office with a bounce in her step. It was with this bounce that she took a lovely little misstep and ended up with the heel of her left pump cracked off and sitting on the floor beside the shoe. She stared at it for a few seconds before bending over to pick it up and stare at it some more. People passed beside her on either side of the hallway, ignoring her plight. Sure, no big deal, but come on, what kind of way was that to start a day? It was not a good omen. Professor Trelawney would be spazzing out. Ginny could practically hear that woman's soporific voice warning her that broken shoe heels were an omen of death.

Ginny moved into her cubicle awkwardly, leant down three inches on her right side. As she sat there, trying to decide if she was going to super glue it or not, three female coworkers burst in. They were wearing identical power suits except for the three different colors: yellow, pink, and baby blue, or if one wanted to use names, Trish, Wendy, and Hannah. These three women were evidence of just how unhealthy it was for the human psyche to spend years working in cubicles. Their scuttle across the room, combined with their smiles, gave the impression of colorful crabs on children's beachwear. _Lord, help me,_ Ginny thought as the loony women sidled toward her desk. 

_Oh yeah,_ she amended mentally with a sheepish grin. _God doesn't talk to Satanists._

"Ginny, we heard the news!" Trish announced, flinging herself onto Ginny's desk and knocking off a framed picture of the Weasley family. She didn't seem to notice.

"I can't believe it!" Wendy squealed. Hannah just nodded like a bobble-headed doll. Ginny grinned at them and shrugged her shoulders.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she replied, even though she did. Waving her hand in the air as if dismissing them, she couldn't help but sneak a bit of a smile. They gaped at her. Obviously they had expected her to spill her heart out to them about this, and now they weren't sure what to say.

"Draco Malfoy is the sexiest man alive!" Hannah's voice ricocheted off the walls. Ginny was sure the Minister of Magic must have heard it two floors up in his office. She didn't even have to ask how the three of them knew about her one date with Draco Malfoy; if she had been constipated when she woke up this morning, she would have gotten here and found laxative on her desk. They were just that competent in their nosiness.

"Hannah, contain yourself," Trish chided before she whirled back to Ginny. "How did you get him? Can I have a friend of his? Can I have him on weekends?"

"With that man, I'd take sloppy seconds," Wendy remarked sagely.

"Hell, I'd take sloppy sevenths," Hannah added.

"Sloppy hundredths."

"Sloppy thousandths."

"Sloppy millionths."

"Sloppy to **infinity** so ha!" Hannah concluded loudly. Ginny shook her head.

"You guys are such five year olds. Besides," she added the last part quietly, a grin tilting upwards on her lips. "Who says anything with him would be sloppy?"

The squeals that followed broke the sound barrier, and it took Ginny nearly twenty minutes to get them all shooed out and into their cubicles. She sagged into her desk as they did and thought about it. She was going to deal with this for a month. Every woman she encountered who knew was going to be dealing with her insane jealousy. The thought had its merit. She could definitely deal with that. Oh hell yeah she could. First it had been The Boy Who Lived, and now it was THE SEXIEST MAN ALIVE, at least according to Hannah. Ginny was not above the petty triumph of being envied.

Ginny thought of Draco standing in her apartment the day before, looking at her with those cool eyes, dressed perfectly, and she nibbled on her lower lip. She had to admit; she agreed with Hannah. Not only was he beautiful, but he was coming to rescue her from her cubicle later in the day for lunch out. Fairy tales had it all wrong; women did not want to be rescued from towers or dragons but from monotony and bureaucracy.

Just as her heart rate was settling and everything was returning to normal -- filing paperwork and all sorts of other oh-so-exciting tasks -- she heard someone enter her cubicle. The sound of dress shoes left a distinctive murmur on the carpeted floor. She could practically feel a smirk searing a brand on her. She thought of Draco leaning in the doorway to her little office, and the air suddenly seemed to sizzle.

As her thoughts ran away from her, she spoke without looking up from the paper she was stamping. "Seduction is not permitted at work."

"What?" The voice of utter shock made her look up, and she squeaked. Not Draco. Oh hell. Definitely not Draco.

"Daddy?" She murmured weakly.

Arthur Weasley was glaring at her; she recognized the expression quite well. It was the same glare she used all the time. He dropped a fat folder full of papers onto the desk, eyes on hers. She gulped. _I have got to learn to just keep my mouth shut._

"What are these for, Daddy?" She tried to sound innocent so that he would just leave and pretend that he had never heard her use the word 'seduction'.

"They need to be filed." He was sitting down. Oh shit. That didn't suggest that he was going to leave. His eyes were on hers now, boring into them, and she felt like he could read her thoughts. The image of she and Draco rolling around, tangled in Egyptian cotton sheets, came unbidden into her mind, and she turned beet red. _Please don't let him be reading that thought._ She tried agin to tamp down on any wayward thought, which, of course, led her brain into the worst places imaginable. Whipped cream, handcuffs, countertops, and dildos danced through her mind. She turned the trademark Weasley color of distress.

"Ginevra Weasley, has someone been harassing you here in the workplace?" His voice was low, concerned, and very quiet. Her eyes widened, and try as she might, she couldn't fight the snort of laughter that accompanied her surprise. He frowned. "Then what…"

"Daddy, I'm twenty-five years old. I'm old enough to use the word 'seduction',"

"But who in bloody hell did you think you were talking to?" Ginny realized that her father had not been home when she was yesterday; somehow he must have managed to get in and out of The Burrow without hearing about any of it. Perhaps he had spent the evening in his shed tinkering with the flying car and had only come in to have some leftovers and go straight to bed. Even so, it was hard to believe so many Weasleys had managed to let the opportunity to tell Dad about baby girl's love life go untaken.

"So, I'm fully supportive of us having sex right – Oh, hello, Arthur – here on your desk." Draco Malfoy smiled as he entered the office about 5 minutes too late.

Ginny didn't know what individual part of this whole situation was worse. Her boyfriend -- who was only her boyfriend because he was trying to win a bet for shagging her and who also happened to be a sworn enemy of her family -- had just walked in while she was having a discussion about harassment in the workplace with her father, and he had announced that he wanted not only to have sex with her -- without any mention of protection or the sanctity of marriage -- but that he wanted to do it in a public, professional setting. Oh, and to top things off, he had said hello to her father in the middle of this proposal.

She should have just gone home sick when she snapped the heel off of her shoe earlier.

Her father's face was turning a very violent shade of purple that was very unbecoming with his red hair, and the smug 'I'm the shit and I know it' look on Draco's face was getting smarmier by the moment. She realized they were both looking at her.

"Oh dear," she murmured weakly.

"Is that a yes?" Draco asked.

She dropped her head to the desk with a thud. The melodramatic gesture hurt more than books suggested. She grunted.

"So it's a no?" He tried again.

She flipped her middle finger in the air and heard a sharp intake of breath from across the desk.

"Sorry, Daddy," she muttered, burying her face in the paperwork about dragon dung and its applications to modern Herbology. _How appropriate,_ she thought. _Because I'm definitely in the shit._

\-----------------

"I don't want to talk to you." Ginny's voice was stubborn and harsh as she licked some mint chocolate chip ice cream off the cone. She and Draco were sitting outside an ice cream parlor, tucked together at one of the quaint little tables under a bright red and white umbrella. He looked calm and unruffled, completely put together from head to toe. From her shoe with its broken heel to her disgruntled expression, she looked distinctly otherwise.

"I bought you ice cream." He feigned a wounded, innocent tone, and she kicked him squarely in the shin under the table. That would teach him to bullshit someone who grew up in a den of testosterone. "Ow. You're a vindictive little bugger."

"You did that on purpose!"

"What? Called you a vindictive little bugger? Yes, that was on purpose." He smirked at her. She looked at him murderously. "Okay, okay. I get it. No more public announcements about my intentions towards you."

She let out a weak groan. "In front of my father. I can't believe you did it in front of my father. I hate you."

She bit into her ice cream again. The cold stung her teeth. He continued to eat from his own cone, unfazed; she had been surprised when he ordered chocolate decadence in a cone. That sounded so…unlike him, for some reason. She would have guessed he was strictly a vanilla in a cup kind of guy, but instead, he was walking on the wild side with a fudgy chocolate-swirled concoction dangling precariously in a waffle cone. She tilted her head in mild amazement at the way he managed to eat an ice cream cone without getting ice cream on that perfect mouth. Her gaze followed the curve of his lips, the way a hint of his tongue or teeth would appear, touched with chocolate. Suddenly he leaned down to meet her gaze, putting his eyes down to where his mouth had been in her ocular space.

"Obviously you're not that mad." He raised an eyebrow.

"I'm furious," she shot back, mentally slapping herself for admiring that mouth. Oh wow. That mouth. The things that she could do with that mouth. The things he could do with that mouth. The things they could do with that mouth. Oh wow.

"You are not. I think you like me." He sounded smug.

"I'm dating you. I'm supposed to pretend to like you." She opted for a lofty, superior tone.

"I think you want me." His voice was husky, and she breathed in slowly, trying to stop the air from escaping her lungs. _He just wants to win that bet, but damn…_

"I think you're wrong."

"I know I'm right." The corner of his mouth lifted in a smirk, and he bit into his cone with a definitive crunch. After he swallowed, he went on. "Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?"

"Huh?"

"That's an unattractive sound."

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Repeat the question."

"Would you," he began as if she had a deficiency that required him to speak very slowly, "like to have dinner with me tonight?"

"Where?"

"At my house."

"Your house. Can you actually Apparate there?"

"I'll disable the anti-Apparation charm since you're coming."

"Wow. I didn't know it was that easy to get into hell."

"All you have to do is sin, Ginevra." His voice dropped low, but his smile acknowledged the over-the-top cheesiness of what he was saying. The mix of confidence and sheepishness kicked up her pulse.

 _You are a walking sexual fantasy, you know that?_ She thought, but all she said was "Har har. Yeah right! I'm coming for the food."

"You'll stay for the dessert."

Silence lapsed over them then because she wasn't sure she could disagree with him without cracking a smile to match his smirk. After all, what was she supposed to say? 'Sorry, Draco, but I'm just not attracted to you'. Finally, she opted for a teasing tone.

"The dessert? What? I was planning on staying for the sex."

She noted with satisfaction that she had left him at a pleasant loss for words.

\---------------

"So, you're dating Draco Malfoy."

Ginny could not believe her bad luck. She had decided to drop into the Leaky Cauldron to have one non-alcoholic drink before she went home; she had felt like a perfect angel, being good before she went to play with the devil. She could hang her halo on his horns when she got there. Yet who should she run into at the Leaky Cauldron but Harry frickin' Potter.

Harry looked rough; his tie was undone, hanging around his shoulders, his hair its usual mess, and he had a hang-dog look that she recognized well. He and Hermione must be having a spat; Harry didn't handle spats well. For someone so brave and quick to jump in there and save the wizarding world as Auror, he ran from conflict quickly in his personal life. Ginny had no doubt that he was drinking to avoid going back to finish his fight with Hermione. After all, how fun could making up be with someone like Hermione? She had hair so bushy that it would have required a pair of hedge trimmers to manage.

 _When did I become such a bitter, bitter woman?_ She wondered in mock self-reflection. Judging another woman's hair while your own was in a messy topknot might be crossing a line of decency.. She grinned broadly at Harry, though, as if she were a queen patronizing a servant.

"Yes, I'm dating him."

"How could you do that to us, Gin?"

"Excuse me? Us?"

"Your family, your friends." Harry shrugged his shoulders. He seemed genuine in his concern, but the knot of bitterness on her heart stayed hard as she remembered how ugly and patronizing it had all been when he cheated on her. She remembered her own silliness, how she had been so in love that his cheating was not enough and she had still been begging him to give them another chance as he left her. Forgiving him for the actions might happen, but she could not forgive the embarrassment she still felt over how it had all gone down. She laughed at him now, seeing a little tiny droplet of her spit land on his cheek. She didn't even feel the need to apologize.

"I'm afraid, Harry, that you don't fall into either of those categories," she said, trying to hide her urge to smile inappropriately. The times when she had truly been angry at him were long gone. Now she looked at him and saw how pathetic and awful and irritating it all was. She saw everything she had once loved and could laugh at it because it was attached to all the things she could never love. He had cheated on her, for God's sake. If that wasn't enough to turn you off someone forever, she didn't know what was. If he had been with Hermione, he had practically been with Ron, which meant Ron had practically been with her! Harry had caused her brother to indirectly commit incest! And he dared to call himself a part of the family or a friend! What a nutcase!

"Ginny, I don't understand why you can't be more adult about all of this. You and I dated for a long time, and we had something very special, but I fell in love with Hermione and I had to follow my heart. I just wish you could be mature and accept that."

She looked at him for a moment and wondered how he had become so delusional. Maybe it hadn't been healthy for him to grow up in a cupboard. He was totally inept with this whole social structure thing. She snorted out a laugh again.

"If you had been able to keep it in your pants, or if you had told me about your after-hours exercise, or shown even an ounce of maturity, perhaps I could have returned the favor. You don't get to do whatever you want and then demand that other people handle it the way you want them to." Her voice was now cold, and she applauded herself silently. Harry hated when people were cold. However, when he replied, there was the strangest hint of a triumphant smirk on his lips,

"When did you become so bitter and angry, Gin? Just because, at twenty-five, your life seems to be stalled... well, it's no reason to begrudge me my happiness."

He didn't. Oh dear God. He didn't. That was the cheapest of cheap shots. She felt a surge of white-hot anger sear across her skin, felt her cheeks turning the same color as her hair. For years, she had been the girlfriend of Harry Potter, the token pretty girl at his side, and she had never complained about it. She had bought into the stereotype she fulfilled, and he had let her, encouraged it even, and now he wanted to play the 'What are you without me?' card. Bitterness and anger rose up like bile now, bubbling over.

"You haven't seen anger yet, you bastard," she growled, rising to her feet. The anger was so thick and heavy and awful and tangible that she wanted to… oh, she couldn't do exactly what she wanted to do, but…

She lifted her half-full butterbeer bottle into the air and threw it at the hardwood floor. It shattered with a sickening and satisfying crash. Silence seemed to descend over all the bar's patrons as Harry gaped at her in horror. She felt a sadistic, dangerous smile capture her lips.

"Ginny, stop!" His voice actually had raised in pitch, and she felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up as she reached for his glass, taking it from his surprised hands. She lifted it up and threw it with another tremendous crash. The glass glittered on the floor in its puddle of amber liquid. Satisfaction draped over her shoulders like a blanket, egging her on.

Like a woman possessed, which she probably was, Ginny took a step forward and picked up an abandoned bottle.

"This is for lying." SMASH! She grabbed another.

"This is for cheating." CRASH! And another.

"This is for betraying my brother." SMASH!

With long strides, she carried herself behind the bar, past the slack-jawed, gaping bartender, and grabbed a full bottle of firewhiskey. The red liquid fizzled and hissed and steamed against the inside of its bottle. She admired it and unscrewed the top before turning to look at Harry. Tilting the bottle to her lips, she gulped down as much as she could, fighting to keep her eyes from watering or her expression from showing the pain of the liquor. The moment was too poetic to spoil. She held the bottle up as one might do before a toast.

"And this, my dear Harry Potter, is for me." She hurled the bottle with every bit of force she could at the wall. It smashed in an explosion of glass, sparks, and smoke. On the floor, the liquid hissed and raced. Harry lifted his shoes off the floor to avoid it.

Brushing her trembling hands together, Ginny felt her anger dissolve as quickly as it had come on. She looked at the horrified but entranced faces all around her, the terror and shock on Harry's face, and the devastation she had caused. Without a word, she hurried for the door.

She marched out of the bar on shaky legs and walked fast up the street until she was just outside of town.

 _You've lost it now, Ginny-girl. You've gone utterly insane. You attempted to destroy a pub because Harry accused you of having a pathetic life,_ she thought miserably as she leaned against a lamppost. _Letting him get to you, now that was pathetic._

She sighed. Then it hit her. What she had just done was illegal. I-L-L-E-G-A-L. She tried not to panic and lose her already mostly lost mind as she drew her wand from her pocket.

She didn't even debate where to Apparate to as she lifted her wand and vanished.

 _Impressive,_ she observed as she appeared on the lawn of the stately stone home. It rested at the crest of a grassy knoll, and it looked distinctly Draco Malfoy. She walked up the lawn gingerly, feeling a tremor through her legs. Perhaps destruction of property hadn't been the best idea she'd ever had. She felt that sadistic grin come back. But damn, did it feel good in the moment.

Reaching the huge door, she was surprised at the cliche of a knocker in the shape of a serpent. She grabbed it and smacked it resoundingly against the wood of the door. There was a long pause, and the door opened. Her breath seized tight in her lungs. Draco was wearing jeans and a button-down white shirt, sleeves cuffed to just below his elbows and bottom completely untucked. He was drying his hands with a dish towel. She had never seen him dressed so casually, so relaxed, and she was certain nothing in the history of the earth had ever been so sexy.

"Hello." He greeted her smoothly, calmly, blissfully unaware of the chaos she brought with her.

"The police are after me. I'm a fugitive," she blurted out. _Nice going,_ she chided herself.

"You know, if you wanted excitement, I could have provided it," he informed her, stepping out of the doorway to invite her in. She appreciated a man who was unafraid of a little criminal behavior.

She accepted his unspoken invitation, and the door fell shut behind them.

\----------------

"I'm in awe. I'm in love. Even I never threw a bottle of firewhiskey at Potter," Draco mused as he lounged his long body across his couch. She was seated on the loveseat opposite him, feet tucked beneath her. He looked like some kind of god lying there, except for the distinctly wicked look twinkling in those cool eyes. He never seemed to fidget, completely still except for the rise and fall of his chest.

 _Breathing is officially going on my list of turn-ons._ She smiled to herself.

"I didn't exactly throw it at him. More because of him," she amended. He waved a hand as if this were an unimportant detail.

"Don't correct me. I'm relishing the thought of you taking aim and throwing a bottle at his head. My real fantasy, though, involves you spilling that whiskey on you before the throw." He mused thoughtfully, tilting his chin up as if actually considering this mental image. "Then I would walk over and catch hold of you where your skin is sizzling from the whiskey, then we would kiss and not just your skin is sizzling…all this while Potter lies unconscious. It's a damn good thought."

 _It's a bloody wonderful thought._ She didn't say that; though from the look on his face, she suspected he knew exactly what she thinking. Her cheeks burned red, but he either didn't notice or pretended not to notice.

"Anyway, I should feed you before we talk sex. That's part of Seduction 101. You'll have to forgive me if I don't get it quite right. You'd be surprised how rarely I have company here at the Manor," he said, standing up.

"You're doing just great," she mumbled under her breath, and he arched an eyebrow. She rolled her eyes. "What? I said 'I don't shag on the second date'."

He didn't call her a liar out loud, but his cool, oh-so-devilish eyes did as he headed for the kitchen, untucked shirt moving lightly against him. She was jealous of that lucky, lucky shirt, getting to touch against smooth skin. She sucked in a breath and laid the length of the loveseat, closing her eyes. Until this man walked into her office, she hadn't realized how much she had missed the distinct male-ness of having someone to go to at night. She had gone too long without actually thinking about how fun, messy, and real sex could be. _You can't go to this guy at night! He's the devil. He's dangerous enough by day._

The sensible side of her mind was losing leverage by the second, though, as the hedonistic side of it tried to convince her that she deserved the kind of sex this man could offer.

"Are you coming in to eat dinner?" She looked up to see him looking at her expectantly. She nodded. He extended his hands to help her up, and when she folded her hands into his, she noticed the way they were smooth and slightly rough all at once. Maybe it was wishful thinking, or maybe his hands really did linger for a moment before they walked into the kitchen. It was hard to separate his calculation from her imagination.

"Now, I don't usually eat in the kitchen with company, but I didn't want to sit at the big dining room table with you. I wanted this table for its intimacy."

It sounded silly until they sat down to eat, and then Ginny understood exactly why he had wanted that. Their knees brushed under the table; their fingers touched as they reached for bowls. His hand caught hers for a moment as he refilled her glass of wine. If they had been romantically inclined, the dinner would have been desperately romantic. Instead, it was a lusty wonderland (how bad would it be to drag him to his bedroom?), and Ginny spent every other moment reminding herself that she was not going to sleep with this man (no matter how much she wanted to). By the time they had cleaned up the kitchen together (she bet there were abs under that white shirt that the right splashes of water could reveal), she was dizzy with suppressed desire.

"You have been quiet," he said. A smirk played at the corner of his mouth.

"I've been thinking--" she began the half-truth as she dried the last dish and put it in the cabinet. _It is unhealthy to go a year and a half without a relationship,_ she decided silently as she gripped the edge of the countertop.

"Concentrating--" he supplemented.

"On some things--"

"On the same things I've been concentrating on--" He dried his hands on a towel.

"But I'm not going to act on them."

"May I?" The husky note of his voice made her back up once as he stepped forward, and she shook her head.

"You can't just seduce me and call that consent!" She practically shouted, voice squeaking dramatically, as he advanced on her. She knew if he touched her, she would just melt against him, melt into it, and she would never be able to resist.

"Shhh." He caught her, pressed a finger to her lips, and slid his strong arms around her waist. She felt him draw her against him, and heat surged through her as their eyes locked. Sparks flew, stars collided, and the kitchen was on fire. She lost the ability to stand on her own as he bent to press his mouth to hers. Tilting up to him, she tumbled into the kiss, all fiery heat and raw desire and desperation. The seconds stretched on and on, as she wrapped her arms up around his neck, as she stretched to accept his kiss more fully. He tasted like the food they had just eaten and something else, something all his own. It made her even dizzier than she had been before.

He slipped back, and her lips were parted, her eyes snapping with the sizzle, and the words "Take me" were resting on her lips, begging to be let out.

He smirked at her, though she saw his eyes dancing with the reflection of her desire and alive with his own. "I enjoyed dinner, Miss Weasley," he said quietly. "I'm sorry you weren't interested in anything more, but I respect your decision, and I will see you tomorrow." 

He brushed the lightest of kisses across her cheek.

As he, as infuriatingly calm as usual, walked out of the room, she tried to think about Antarctica and knew that wasn't going to help. It was going to take something far better than that to cool her down when all she wanted was to truly heat up.

 _Curse chastity!_ Her mind roared as she Disapparated.


	3. Inventions and Interruptions

"So what is that?" Ginny leaned over to peer into the cauldron beside her. She was seated on the counter, using the hundreds of papers scattered there as a cushion. The amorphous fuchsia liquid -- er, solid? -- burbled at her. George looked up from dropping in some cicada exoskeletons while Fred stirred the goop in a circle. It clung oddly to the spoon before it sloughed off in wobbling, jelly-like clumps. It was actually quite sickening.

"This is the base ingredient for the power in our newest idea," George stated, dropping in another pinch of Snirklet Trimmings. The goop hissed, and Ginny leaned back in case the substance was toxic. Both brothers' eyes sparkled in twin triumph.

"It is serious stuff, stuff that we are never, ever putting on the market. It's far too dangerous." Fred passed the spoon over to George and wiped his hands on the front of his jeans. George wiped the spoon on a stained dishrag and then sniffed it.

Ginny had always loved the back room of Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes. With all its crazed half-finished concoctions and a supply of ingredients that more than rivaled Snape's private store, the back room looked like mad scientist's laboratory at its most insane. The twins hardly fit the bill of mad scientists, in jeans and tee-shirts, but Ginny knew better. Their jokes and self-deprecation belied sharp minds and practical economy. Starting a business on a shoestring and then working their way up to financial comfort showed the grit beneath their silly surfaces. They were also often certifiably insane. Why else would they test their ShockTarts For Enemies, which actually carried electrical pulse, on themselves?

That, after all, was not a sign of great sanity.

"Why are you making it if you're not going to market it?" She asked. Her mouth twisted as the goop made a sound that could only be described as a belch.

"To prove that we can," Fred replied, staring down lovingly at it as if it were the Holy Grail of goops. His face reminded her of her friends who had children and thought it was cute when their newborns sneezed. He might be impressed by the belching goop, but she was unmoved. He did not elaborate on his statement as he was too busy admiring his handiwork.

"Prove that you can what?" Ginny prompted, pushing a lock of hair away from her face.

"Prove that we can make this stuff work. We'll tell you eventually, Gin. There's no point in rushing us. These things take time," George admonished, sounding oddly adult for a moment. The burst of maturity startled all of them, and George grinned sheepishly. "I mean, leave me alone, butthead."

"Much better." Fred chuckled. "If working on this stuff is going to make us serious, we'd better stop right now,"

"There'll be nothing serious about it if we make it work," George said with a mysterious grin, slapping the spoon against the edge of the cauldron to knock the sticky gunk back in.

"It'll be awesome."

"Totally wicked."

"Do you know what people would pay for this?"

"Do you know what the Ministry would do to us if they knew about this?"

"What the hell is this stuff?" Ginny interjected. She was starting to get concerned. She could envision it now, her troublesome brothers shipped off to Azkaban, slumped against the walls muttering sales pitches to other inmates.

"Soon, Ginny. Soon." They were both grinning wildly now. "Five minutes of sitting, and this stuff should be ready."

"Until then, let's distract you with talk of something that interests you… what about Draco Malfoy?" Fred waggled a gingery eyebrow.

Ginny's cheeks tinged pink. It had been one week, one week that they had been "dating", and they had not kissed since that second night. Actually, he had been a perfect gentleman while every fiber of being screamed _desecrate me!_ It had been more than mildly frustrating, and even as she sat in this totally unromantic room, she felt herself getting a little warm at the thought of him. He was dangerous. There was no way whatever it was that Fred and George were making could be as dangerous as him.

 _I have to sound poised. In control. Not totally like I want to screw him any way I can, any time I can, as much as possible._ She thought, running her fingers absently along her shoulder.

"What about him?" She tried on a dignified voice, royal even. Instead her voice was sort of strangled. So much for poise.

"Are you just screwing around with him? Shagging and stuff or is it serious?" George asked, sounding pretty unconcerned about the matter. She raised an eyebrow.

"You don't care if your baby sister is sleeping with someone?"

"Oh, Gin, hell no. Clearly we have not been very good brothers to you since we moved out of The Burrow way back when. We are not like puppy-dog, I'll-follow-Miranda anywhere Ronald. We are definitely not like I-have-a-stick-up-my-butt Percy. And we definitely aren't like Mum and Dad. More like Bill and Charlie, we are firm believers in having fun." Fred looked up at the ceiling as if memories of x-rated fun were dancing like sugarplums in his head.

"Very firm believers. Women, like candy, should never last too long. We always hated that old Roald Dahl book that had Everlasting Gobstoppers. Who wants the same piece of candy forever?" George said.

"No one, that's who," Fred concluded. "And the same concept applies with women."

Ginny regarded her brothers with new interest. Who knew this twisted, unusual logic rested in their loony brains? It was no wonder that they were thirty-years-old and totally uncommitted except to their store. They were still using the dating world like a sampler box of chocolates. How had she not known that this impropriety existed in her own kinfolk?

"You all are twisted." She couldn't help but grin as she said it.

"Not as twisted as you, jumping from Harry Potter, the good Gryffindor, to the Slytherin Prince."

"We're not at Hogwarts anymore," she retorted, blushing.

"Trust me. We know. Don't change the subject. Are you shagging Malfoy?"

Her twin brothers might be more open-minded than the rest of the family, but they evidently still needed lessons in personal space and privacy. _Boundaries. The whole damn family needs lessons in boundaries._

"Not yet," she said. She saw no way around having this conversation.

"Are you going to?" George looked interested. Their eyes on her, she turned back to bright red and nodded.

"Merlin's beard, I hope so," she admitted with an embarrassed grin. Fred and George grinned at each other.

"She is our sister, after all!" They cheered in chorus. George continued in a phony serious-docent voice: "Welcome to the dark side of the family, Gin. We wear our Black Sheep shirts on all major holidays and ask that you refrain from apologizing for outlandish behavior."

"You guys are crappy brothers," she said, still smiling.

"Not really. We pay attention to your life. That's a good thing." Fred could not resist looking in the cauldron while he spoke. Ginny's curiosity rumbled again. "Yeah. Like we know practically destroyed the Leaky Cauldron when Harry made you mad last week," George added. "We read the charges in the Daily Prophet's crime report."

"If that's not keeping up with you like good brothers, then what is?" 

Ginny wondered if it was possible to be in a room for more than ten minutes and not end up embarrassed. If it was, it had never happened to her. Not once in her whole life. On the whole, the charges had been fairly minor. She had apologized profusely, paid for the damages, and agreed to a few hours of community service reading to sick people at St. Mungo's. The story had swirled its way into gossip, though, and she had heard so many different versions of the story that she had started to enjoy them from a storytelling perspective. _I did what when Draco walked in and discovered me making out with Harry at the bar?... I put a Bat-Bogey Hex on Tom and then climbed on the bar to throw bottles at Harry?_ The general public obviously thought she didn't fall far from the crazy tree.

"I'm so grateful you get to read about my shining moments in the paper," she groused.

"That's not bad at—"

Suddenly the fuchsia goop growled, cutting off George's words. Ginny peered into the cauldron in concern.

"Your stuff is being menacing," she said as if they hadn't heard it.

"It's done," they murmured, in reverent unison again. The matching gleam of total excitement in their eyes fascinated Ginny. She searched it for signs of insanity, but instead, this time, saw clarity. Fred spooned out a dollop of the goop onto the tray that George was holding. It fizzled oddly and produced a squelching sound like a child making farting noises with its mouth. George grinned at it and lifted his wand, pressing the tip into the pile.

It smooth out and hardened, leaving a tiny indent where the wand had been. Looking like a piece of putrescent purple amber, it seemed innocuous, lying on the tray. Fred dropped a second glop beside it, George poked it with his wand, and it hardened, matching the first piece perfectly.

"That it?" Fred asked, his spoon poised over the cauldron. George looked over at him, but Ginny couldn't see his face.

"Let's do one more." George's voice held a strange intensity, and Ginny felt like wriggle of concern in her chest. After hardening the third glop, Fred lifted his wand and the contents of the cauldron vanished. All evidence disappeared except for three hardened dollops on the tray. Fred picked one up, holding it between his thumb and index finger.

"Ginny, you have no idea what this is. If you did, you would be worshipping us," he announced.

"This offers you something rules-free, inhibitions-free, something that nothing else in the history of eternity could ever do…" George continued.

"What is that?" She interrupted, eyes wide.

"This piece of candy—" Fred began.

"Grape-flavored, we think," George interjected. Fred shot him a look.

"This piece of candy gives you one, exactly one--"

"One what?" Ginny cried in exasperation.

"One rule-free, inhibitions-free fantasy," George said, "Anything you want, any one experience or thing or anything. It's yours."

Her jaw tumbled open. 

\---------------

She felt like a drug dealer. The instant she had gotten home, she'd wrapped the piece of candy in a piece of aluminum foil and searched for a good place to put it. She had opted for her underwear drawer, tucking right under a pair of Daffy Duck panties. It was serious contraband, after all, but she wasn't going to just get rid of it. She was going to save it. Maybe for a rainy day. Maybe she would never use it, but that didn't really matter. Just having it made her smirk. Her brothers were actual criminal freakin' geniuses.

"Do you realize what this means, Ginny Weasley?" She told her reflection as she stared herself down in the mirror. "This means that the world is now your quidditch pitch, and you have a Firebolt." Her triumph was short-lived as she began to dress for the evening. In her mirror, she watched her auburn waves' frizz smooth into a ponytail and her makeup transform her face from blotchy to semi-one color. Tonight was destined to be a nightmare. In fact, if someone were planning on writing this night as a story, they would title it 'Nightmare in the Burrow'. Not catchy, but probably a seriously accurate description.

See, her parents had decided to discourage her from dating Draco Malfoy. She knew that's what they were doing because that is the only reason anyone would ever invite someone into a house that was going to contain the following people: Ron (her nutty, overprotective brother), Miranda (his girlfriend whose very normalcy made her weird), Fred and George (the mad scientists who were brilliant but crazy), Arthur (her deeply concerned father), Molly (her frazzled mother), Harry (her newly-terrified-of-her, ex-boyfriend), Hermione (her ex-boyfriend's favorite frizzy bookworm), and her (the only sane person in the entire set-up).

Oh dear lord. This was going to be quite an experience.

She had made Draco promise to meet her here at her apartment first, not just head to the Burrow, and she knew it would be any minute now for his arrival. Unlike last time he had been here, she was prepared. Not only had she been dressed for over an hour, but she was wearing an outfit that would have pleased nuns. She had put on a longer-than-knee-length white skirt and a short-sleeved green shirt. She felt ridiculously wholesome in the outfit, but it was better safe than sorry. Even the lightest flash of cleavage or any other exciting skin might set Draco off, and she couldn't have that in front of her parents.

_Oh, right, Gin. Like he's the one who's been about to lose it. You damn near pass out if he gets close enough._

She had to grin at that. Right then, she heard the pop of Apparation and knew that he was in her apartment. There went the oxygen in this place. He walked right to her bedroom, knocking on the open door as he reached it. She watched him through his reflection in the mirror and should not have been surprised to find that he had surprised her again. She had dressed so innocently, and he had somehow done the same. In clean khaki pants and a black polo shirt, he looked like somebody's golf buddy. Well, someone's golf buddy who was extremely, extremely sexy, but someone who was still generally trustworthy. Shocking. He raised an eyebrow at her expression.

"You look, uh… like… uh…you look…" She fumbled lamely, going to push a hand through her hair and finding it was up in a ponytail. Her hand dropped back to her side with a slap.

"Like someone you could bring home to Mummy and Daddy?" He offered, looking disgusted at the sound of the words. His lip curled in a sneer she had seen many times before. Despite herself, she grinned back.

"Yes, that's exactly what you look like." A strange thrill raced up her back. She was about to bring this man into her childhood home. No matter how he had dressed the part, men like him belonged to dark rooms and heavy breathing and hot hands; they did not belong to talking to your parents about the weather and the state of the economy.

"Well, I am the sort of someone you can take home to Mummy and Daddy. Haven't I done what you wanted for the past week? Been a perfect gentleman?" There was unmasked sarcasm in his voice, and she glared at him.

 _What I want is to screw you senseless right here and right now, you stupid bastard!_ She wished her thoughts would at least attempt to control themselves.

"You have been perfect," was what she said aloud in a defeated tone, looking pouty.

 _Liar_ , her thoughts growled. 

"Liar," he said aloud, voice calm and unbelievably sultry. Her eyebrows snapped upward, and she tried to look appalled at the insult. Instead she just looked turned on by his tone. He went on, "And since you are lying to me and yourself, I'm going to be forced to do something about it."

His voice dropped a bit, and she breathed in shakily. She realized her eyes were wide as he concluded,

"I'm just going to have to give you what you want."

Ginny wasn't sure how the distance between them closed, but as it did, she was mumbling, "You can't do this. My parents…"

"…will get over it," he concluded, tugging her against his chest. His mouth descended on hers, and she rocked up into him. The dampness in her underwear did not surprise her, but the rigid hardness she met when pressing against him did. He wanted her. He wanted her very badly. They kissed hard as if a fierce hunger had grown in the past week, and her hands slid up his chest as his rested at her hips, bunching up the fabric of her skirt. The bare skin of her legs brushed the rough material of his pants, and his tongue parted her lips and tasted her mouth. Colors swirled under her eyelids, heat spread over every inch of her body, and he let his hands glide under her shirt. When he touched the soft skin of her sides, she tightened, gasping into his mouth. As she inhaled again, she tasted cool mint on his breath and kissed him hard all over again.

He guided her backwards, and she felt the backs of her knees bump against her bed. His mouth escaped hers to glide over her skin, nipping in the soft hollow just below her jaw, hot against her warm skin. She reached for his shirt, untucking it feverishly, as his deft fingers found the clasp of her bra. It pulled tighter for a mere millisecond before slacking and being guided off, removed from under her shirt. He threw it unceremoniously at the wall, and he moved his hands back out in the open, gliding them up to cup her face in his strong hands. Her breasts hung heavy and desperate to be touched, and yet he touched her face first. Their eyes met, and she saw lust crackling there. She licked the curve of her bottom lip as he pulled her down to the bed. Then he licked it for her.

He moved slower now, and she craved his weight against her. His chest brushed hers, and even with two layers of fabric separating their skin, her nipples sprang to desperate attention. She savored the sensation of their bodies pressed together, of his weight holding her to the bed, making her body dent the smooth fabric of her comforter. His hands roamed now, finding any exposed skin, creating their own exposed skin, pushing that wholesome skirt out of his way and letting his fingers trace shapes along her thighs. He moved in tantalizing starts and stops, sliding his index finger along her skin, pausing, and then doing it again.

_He's good at this…Oh hell… __she leaned up into him, gripping the front of his shirt. He smirked against her mouth, murmuring into the heat of her lips._

"Why, Ginevra? Are you getting desperate?" He teased, nipping the tip of her nose. She nodded breathlessly.

"You weren't supposed to get me here… not for a month…" She mumbled, hardly coherent as she felt his hips settle on hers; even fully clothed, it made her pulse surge erotically, er, erratically. "In fact, let me up… no sex… not for a month," Her voice lacked in conviction as she kissed him feverishly between phrases.

"Shut up," he replied, reaching his hands down to lift her shirt over her head. He caught her hair tie, releasing the mess of red curls, and she was too dizzy and turned on and hot to even care that she was topless and disheveled beneath the sexiest man alive.

 _Take me,_ her thoughts moaned as she got rid of his shirt and let herself press against the smooth, pale skin, all taut muscle and perfection.

"Your problem…" She noted that his breathing was quick, voice throaty, a little deeper than usual, "is that you can't just trust me about this. Let go, Ginevra Weasley. I can handle this." He had his hands under her skirt, which was pretty much gone anyway. She closed her eyes, torn between wanting his mouth back and listening to that sexy voice urge her on.

"See, the thing is… I can take care of this. I can make you moan," His hands shifted, and she saw glitter and explosions. "I can make you scream. I will leave you sore and so sexually satisfied that you will never question the importance of an orgasm ever again. I will do anything because I have no barriers." 

As he spoke, he rid them of her skirt, tossing it off the bed. In only plain white cotton underwear, she writhed as he explored, mouth taking a journey through uncharted territories, licking, biting, teasing. Her fingers fumbled to undo his belt, to unzip those damned pants, as she damn near came right there beneath him.

"In fact, I'm going to teach you to have no barriers, too. Right now, as a matter of fact." He nipped at her hipbone, and she gasped, arching upwards. There was a pause, and next thing, she knew, he was speaking from a new location, lips sending vibrations up her thighs. "So, do you want to have sex with me, Ginevra?"

What a damned rhetorical question.

She felt his fingers touching the top of her underwear, and she nodded.

"Oh hell yes," she gasped. She felt his mouth smirk against her skin, felt him slide back up to kiss her hard on the mouth. She bucked into him and earned a startled groan from him as her body ground his clothed erection.

Then something ruined everything:

" **Bloody hell**!"

\----------------

This was the sort of thing that was only supposed to happen in silly muggle movies. You were never supposed to be in the middle of the world's greatest foreplay with the most incredible sexual athlete in the history of eternity (he should compete in it, seriously) by your older brother. Both of Ron's hands shot to cover his mouth, and he looked like a little old lady, only far more shocked and devastated. 

"Ginny?!" Ron's voice was strangled, horrified. No one's jaw had ever dropped like that. He looked like a snake unhinged to swallow its prey.

Ginny had to give Draco points for not saying anything snide. He had remained on top of her, using his body as a primitive, but very lovely, sheet. She looked up at Ron with wide eyes, stunned into silence.

"Bad time, Weasley," Draco pointed out finally, but he sounded a little weary, a little defeated. Ginny could understand the feeling; she still couldn't breathe from all that arousal.

"You were…she was… you were… oh my god." Ron looked ill. So ill that he walked over and sat down on the bed beside them, dropping his head into his hands. The awkwardness of sitting beside her brother while almost entirely naked and covered by a man who had nearly fucked her brains out was not lost on Ginny. She shifted uncomfortably, and instantly wished she hadn't as she caused her skin to glide over Draco's. Oh god. She was still turned on. Damn it all.

"…and afterwards, you were all going to come to the Burrow like nothing had happened! Augh!" Ron was deeply traumatized. Ginny reached over and uncomfortably patted his shoulder with the tips of her fingers. He jumped off of the bed, whirling. Trauma turned to anger just like that.

"I am going to tell the family exactly why you are late for dinner, Ginny Weasley!" He roared, lifting his wand and Disapparating.

Draco looked down at Ginny, two blue eyes cool, with a hint of sapphire fire still sizzling at the edges.

"We'll finish this later, bad girl. Right now, I'm going to have to go explain to your Mummy and Daddy why I was about to fuck their daughter," he half-smiled, half-smirked. "And the worst part is that I'll have to explain that after we finish our conversation, I'm going to drag that same daughter back and finish the job."

He grinned. "Actually, maybe we should just stay and finish it now."

She shook her head, sitting up with one hand to head. _Wow. Coming close to getting an amazing shag gave you quite the head rush._ Feeling pleasantly dizzy and tingly and aroused, she tried to sound practical,

"Let's go now before they all show up here to watch."

Apparently even Draco could not stomach the thought of the entire Weasley clan watching. He stood up and started getting re-ordered.

And what a flipping shame.

_You definitely look better without clothes. I definitely like us better without clothes. Come back here so that we can be without clothes again._

She tried to stand up but wobbly knees kept her down.

_Oh, dear. I am so totally toast. And not the kind with butter and jam, either._

She started getting dressed to go have a talk about the birds and bees with her parents and the sexiest man alive. Her world was a very strange place. She went into her underwear drawer to get a new pair, not yet soaked with arousal, and saw her fantasy candy. A very strange place indeed.


	4. Obnoxiousness and Orders

The balls it requires to tell an entire family that their baby girl was having illicit sex with their most loathed enemy are incredibly large, and it seemed that Ron Weasley was not actually in possession of such behemoth testicles because when Ginny and Draco Apparated into the living room of The Burrow, there was no overwhelming backlash. In fact, the gathering looked fairly acceptable, a lot of adults holding wine glasses and trying to look a lot more polished and put-together than they would on a typical evening. Ginny almost groaned; they were faking it for him, showing him that the Weasleys did not trade class and prosperity for morality. No, they seemed to want to give off the impression that they had both. Quite honestly, no matter how much she loved them, sometimes she wondered if they had any of it. She wondered that from a place of fierce love but wondered it nonetheless.

She looked at everyone and tried to smile, no matter how shaky. With each turn of her head, she saw a new stiff face that made her smile wobble, particularly Ron's stony, unsmiling gaze. His hand was trembling, likely with rage, on his wine glass. Turning her up to Draco, she felt envious of his cool, unflustered expression. Nothing rattled him.

He smiled and held out a hand to her dad as politely as ever a boyfriend did to his girlfriend's father. She thought back to the first dinner with Harry and her family when they had started dating; it had a typical, chaotic family evening. She kind of liked this respect for her and her boyfriend, even if it was prompted by their hatred of him. It made her feel grown-up, respected.

"Mr. Weasley, thank you for having me. When Ginevra told me that you all desired my presence at dinner this evening…" he was saying, putting deliberate emphasis on _desired_ and looking directly at Ron, who flushed crimson. The wine in his glass was sloshing towards the rim now, threatening to spill over. His agitation shook his hand like trees in a tropical storm. Ginny tried to pretend she did not notice either male's actions. Play dumb. That was always the answer, right? "Well, naturally, I was surprised, considering all our differences."

Arthur reached forward and took Draco's hand in the same cautious manner that one might reach for a snake, but once their hands locked, all caution was gone. Ginny imagined a pressure gauge above their hands, rising and rising until it finally exploded over the top. She noticed that when they finally let go, too many seconds later, both hands were red.

"Not at all. Any friend of Ginny's is a friend of ours." 

Ginny wondered how her dad was managing to spit that out through his gritted teeth. Draco just smiled, one corner of his mouth flipped up. She recognized the devilish glint in his blue eyes too late, and a strong arm snaked out and wrapped around her waist, pulling her close.

"Well, I'm not just a friend of Ginny's, but I appreciate the sentiment," he crooned, all charm as he leaned down to kiss the top of her head. The kiss lingered a second too long, a reminder of the sizzle shared too few minutes before. She looked up at him, trying to convey a 'Why do you insist on being a douchebag?' message with her eyes directly to Draco without anyone else being able to read it. 

"Ginevra, darling, is there something in your eye?" He asked innocently. In fact, his cool, innocuous expression was the only one in the room. Everyone else seemed to have lost the shiny, welcoming veneer they had been faking and instead had slipped into good, normal Weasley seething, complete with shiny red faces. Ah, now this was more like the home she knew and loved.

"No, no, there's nothing in my eye, but thank you for your concern," she replied, forcing a smile into existence through the tension hovering in the air in the room. An awkward silence descended, blanketing them all in its uncomfortable wake. Ginny wondered if everyone else would be offended if she just took Draco's hand, marched up to her old bedroom and finished what the two of them had started back in her flat. She liked things better when there was no thinking, no complicated family relations, and no feeling… emotionally, that is, because physically, there was plenty of feeling. Besides, obviously her parents would be forced to understand on some level. You do not end up with seven children by reveling in celibacy and Bible reading. There is some bumping uglies involved in the creation process of such a gaggle.

Finally, the beloved twin brothers, acting as the eldest members of the family in the absence of the true eldest threesome, swooped in to save their only sister. Fred walked over and took her hand, guiding her out from under Draco's arm.

"Hey, Ginny, why don't you and Miranda go help mum finish up dinner?" He said, pushing her towards the beet-faced Molly Weasley and the shy, not-getting-involved Miranda.

At the same time, George moved towards Draco.

"I could use a smoke, Malfoy. What about you?" The good-natured twin inquired, and Ginny could have kissed him for it, whether Draco looked grateful or not. Draco just nodded.

"A smoke sounds good," he replied, and the two of them headed towards the door and out of the room. Ginny breathed a sigh of relief before looking at everyone else. Her mum looked as if she was about to have heart failure from the shock of having a Malfoy in her house, so that was the first problem to be addressed here.

"Mum, you just sit out here and relax. Miranda and I can finish up dinner ourselves. I'm sure you've left hardly anything to do, right?" Ginny spoke in a soothing voice that she imagined would feel like cool balm on her mother's hot nerves, but Molly just looked further upset.

"First bringing home that Satan spawn and now kicking me out of my own kitchen," The Weasley matron muttered darkly without showing any sign of rising from her chair. Finally, Ginny met Miranda's gaze, and they shuffled their way into the kitchen. It smelled heavenly, the meaty smell of a good thick Brunswick stew and freshly-baked bread. Ginny wished she had her mother's magic in the kitchen, the figurative kind rather than the literal swish-of-a-wand kind. She lifted the lid off of the stew pot and gave it a stir while Miranda opened the oven door to check on the bread and the green bean casserole.

"So… Draco Malfoy, huh?" Miranda said. There was an oddly sympathetic note to her tone that made Ginny look over. "Must be a handful to date someone that insecure."

"Insecure?" Her jaw dropped. Had Miranda never actually met Mr. Cool-Confident-and-In-Control? Ginny snorted. "He has an ego the size of Great Britain. No, wait. Scratch that. An ego the size of Russia." Realizing that this did not do a very good job of upholding the image that she was actually dating him, rather than just pretending, she tacked on a "That I love" for good measure. Miranda laughed.

"Just seems like a front to keep from talking about himself. I worked with him on a project back at Hogwarts once. He was cocky as hell unless you made him actually talk about himself, like we had to do for parts of the project. Then he just got cold and sarcastic. Seemed like insecurity to me," Miranda replied thoughtfully. "That was quite some time ago, though. He's probably a lot different now."

Ginny had never paid much attention to Ron's girlfriend before now, but now she really looked at her.

"You're a professional Legilimens, aren't you?" Ginny asked her with sudden deep interest, and Miranda nodded. "So you must actually know, right?"

Now Miranda shook her head.

"No. By Ministry regulation, Legilimentes are only able to practice in a specific environment. My job is really no different than that of a muggle psychiatrist and those confidentiality agreements. I just look into the memories and emotions and help my patients gain control of them or learn from them or whatever the particular situation calls for. Malfoy has never been a patient of mine." She laughed, seemingly at the thought of Malfoy coming into her practice looking for help. Ginny felt a sudden stab of interest in just how Ron and Miranda had met, but she was far too concerned to ask. She did not want to know what embarrassing family memories Miranda may have watched.

"Thank God. Wouldn't want you to know more about my boyfriend than I do," Ginny joked hollowly, eyes furtively glancing around the kitchen for the timer. She wanted to get back to the big setting again. Her awareness that she was in the kitchen with someone who probed others' brains for a living was suddenly way too high for her to feel comfortable.

"Well, it doesn't take a mind reader to see that you two have sizzle," Miranda replied with a conspiratorial smile, obviously an attempt to ease the tension and earn a smile from Ginny. It worked, and Ginny warmed as she thought of her and Draco in her flat earlier. Yes, sizzle was something they did indeed have. Just being next to him made the temperature in any room rise by ten degrees.

"Sizzle sounds like a good thing," the devil himself echoed, and Ginny turned to see him coming through the back door. There was no smell of smoke on his breath as he leaned down to whisper in her ear. "I don't actually smoke, but I needed the cool air to remind myself that you want me to behave at dinner."

She nodded, even as she thought that she wanted nothing more than to misbehave with him. "You got it, buddy. Absolute best behavior."

She reached for her wand on the kitchen counter and flicked it at the pot of stew and then a cabinet. Bowls started to fly out, waiting patiently for the stew pot to tip on its side and fill them up. Miranda walked into the other room, the bread basket and silverware floating behind her to set themselves upon the table. It was moments like this where her ex-boyfriend would have proclaimed reverently, "God I love magic."

Her currently boyfriend, however, just looked at her handiwork with a cool, unappreciative look. "Do you need any help with anything?"

 _Wait. Wait. Wait. Hold the Hogwarts Express. Did Draco Malfoy just offer to help?_ She looked up at him, pushing a strand of red hair away from her eyes. He looked exactly the same as the asshole who had breezed into her office a little over a week ago and asked her to sleep with him to win him a bet with his rich, obnoxious friends, but that asshole would never have offered to help her with anything. So obviously he was ill. Desperately ill. She reached up and touched his forehead with the back of her hand, and he raised an eyebrow.

"What are you doing?"

"You're sick. Obviously. You just offered to help."

"Miss Weasley," he began in an almost annoyed tone, taking her wrists and turning her to face him. She looked up into his eyes and felt that odd rush, as if the very earth under her feet was quaking and shaking her insides, as if he controlled something wild and sexual inside of her just by meeting her gaze. She fought the urge to kiss him as he lowered his face towards hers. "I offered to help you earlier, did I not?"

"With what ex— oh." He had offered to help her understand exactly why an orgasm was so important. The memory sent a curious electric shock through her system. "Well, yes. But that is not the same sort of helping at all."

"No, it's not. It is a much bigger and more important form of help. So why should you be surprised at me offering a paltry piece of help with something as minuscule as dinner?"

"You know, for a second, I thought you were sick, then I hoped you were normal, and then I remembered you're a Malfoy," she replied sarcastically, walking over to pull open a door. She thrust a handful of napkins towards him.

"Go put these on the table." He did not extend a hand to take them. "I thought you were willing to help."

He raised an eyebrow. "And I thought you understood who gives the orders around here."

"You can give me orders later. For now…" She handed him the silverware. "Go put these on the table."

She should not have been surprised that he did exactly as he was told because the glint of pleasure on his face when she said "You can give me orders later" said it all.

\---------------

Dinner turned into a spectacular mess. Her family was so keyed-up in Draco's presence that more than one cup was overturned, piece of silverware dropped, etc. Though only one person actually stabbed himself in the cheek with a fork -- that honor was reserved specifically for Ron -- everyone made their discomfort known.

When everyone had laughed at Ron for the fork, attempting to break the tension, he had become so angry that he blurted out that the only reason anyone felt it was acceptable to laugh at him was because no one wanted to address the fact that Ginny was just shagging Draco because she missed Harry. When Molly Weasley corrected him gently that Ginny was not shagging anyone, Ron announced that he had witnessed it just before dinner in Ginny's flat. Then Mr. Weasley had awkwardly confirmed it by telling briefly the story of the workplace sexual proposition a week before.

Needless to say, dessert was skipped, angry words were exchanged, and Ginny turned her family's trademark color before turning to Draco and saying,

"Take me home NOW."

Her stunned family only had enough time to feel wounded that she did not consider The Burrow home.

\--------------

Ginny had not expected to be in the Malfoy Manor when she demanded to go home, but the arrival of her feet on the marble floor did not upset her. She was already close to tears. Draco was standing a few feet away from her after Apparating, looking at her and looking somewhat confused. Of course he would not understand. He had grown up in the heart of evil, basically, the snake pit itself, so of course he could not understand how much the true disappointment and disapproval of your family, usually full of love, could hurt. Her daddy's biting comment that she was certainly not behaving like the girl he raised had stung all the way to the core, and it was that comment that had her holding back tears.

Even more unbearable, she was sniffling in front of Draco Malfoy, her faux-boyfriend.

"I'm sorry. They just…" Sniffle. "make me." Sniffle. "so upset." Sniffle.

He stood, looking at her awkwardly, and then his eyes brightened as if a small revelation of sorts had hit him.

"Come here, Ginevra," he said without any of the sarcasm or icy charm. Without those usual indicators, she realized his voice was smooth and soothing..

"Why?" She asked, sniffling again. He looked agitated, and he shifted almost imperceptibly from one foot to the other. She had never seen such an uncharacteristically hesitant action from him before in her life. She sniffled again. He shifted again. There seemed to be a correlation. Forcing another sniffle, she did it again. So did he.

"You seem to need a hug because you are crying," he finally said. She forced out a whiny, high-pitched half-wail of sadness, and he took two steps backward. The correlation had been established. Draco Malfoy was afraid of crying women. _A good person would tell him she was okay. I, however, am going to exploit the hell out of this._

Too fascinated by this discovery to continue genuinely crying, she began to fake it. Her fake crying was not very good. It was a little too melodramatic, a little too shrill, but it seemed to suit the purpose of scaring him quite effectively. Even through her squinted eyes and shaking line of vision – due to the fake sobs shaking her body – she was able to see that he was backed all the way up against the wall, trying and failing to look as if he was just casually leaning there.

"Do you need something? Can I go get you some water?" He asked, voice nervous under the attempt at his usual calm tone.

"No! Just hold me!" She wailed, moving towards him with arms outstretched. She wiggled her fingers like outstretched claws as she did so and tried to refrain from letting the fake crying turn to laughing. She watched him stoically try to stand up straight, half-opening his arms to accept her into an embrace. Once he folded her into his arms, though, it was much harder to maintain the fake sobs. His body still surprised her with how warm it was, like a furnace that lit a fire all the way to her very bones, and his arms were strong, holding her too tight in his nerves about handling a crying woman. She relished in the feel of his arms around her for a moment, even though she knew it was foolish and that it was just a sign that the devil was getting too strong of a grasp on her.

When her relishing moment was up, however, she turned her red face towards him, looking up at him with a quivering lower lip. "I can't believe," she began, full acting performance in place for a few seconds before she dropped the façade and grinned, "that you fell for that!"

He looked down at her -- first confused, then shocked, and then horrorstruck. "Fell for what?"

"You honestly thought I was crying like this." She produced another fake ear-splitting sob and then giggled. "You fell for it!"

"You were crying when I saved you from The Burrow. It was natural to think that…" He stopped, looking down at her. His arms were still around her, his face remarkably close to hers. Suddenly, he smiled. It took her aback now, this sudden, genuine smile that showed perfectly white teeth and not a trace of cynicism. "You little bitch."

Those three little words had never been muttered more affectionately.

"You goddamned obnoxious little bitch," he stated again, still smiling and sounding almost… proud. He put two fingers under her chin and leaned down to kiss her. His mouth was hot and sweet, and she was so surprised by the kiss that there was nothing to do except kiss him back. She tasted the intoxicating taste of his mouth that she was coming to recognize. It was cool in some ways, clean and somehow minty in spite of his last meal being stew, but in other ways, it was all heat, like hot fudge that had been heated too long, sweet and decadent and burning in your mouth but too delicious to quit tasting. She rocked up into the kiss, arms sliding around his neck, and she heard a low, husky purr.

Then she realized the low, husky purr had come from her.

His hands cupped her cheeks, fingers sliding over the delicate skin of her neck and making her shiver, before he moved his mouth to the hint of her collarbone showing in spite of her modest shirt. He suckled first, gently, so gently it could have been anyone but Draco, and then he licked, tongue dexterous enough to be someone with experience, and then he bit down on the soft skin and made her cry out, hard enough without hurting her to only be Draco. He whispered against her skin, hot breath turning cool against the skin he had just dampened with his tongue.

"I want to teach you a lesson about punishment for lying to me."

"I didn't lie to you," she argued, her voice so soft and husky that it was hardly her own.

"You did. You pretended to be upset and I felt… very sorry for you." He kissed the soft skin on the other side of her neck this time, and then he nipped, pressing his teeth into the skin hard enough to make her gasp.

"You punish people for teaching you compassion?" She realized her entire body weight had sagged against him. Her bones felt as if they had melted right out of existence.

"That doesn't happen to me very often," he replied, finding that soft hollow under her jaw that was so sensitive and leaving a tender kiss – after an ever so delicate flick of his tongue – there. "But I'll make a deal with you."

"What kind of deal?" Even to her own ears, her voice sounded greedy.

He slid his hands down, cupping them under her bottom and lifting her up. Her legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, and now that they were eye-to-eye, she could see all the smoldering heat in his. She wondered if hers looked as lusty, and then wondered no more as he chuckled. "I think you'll like this deal."

"Lay out the terms, Lucifer," she said, putting her nose on his. The whole moment, standing in the dimly-lit foyer of Malfoy Manor, looking into each other's eyes, as every hormone in their bodies raced and leapt and over-rejoiced in excitement, was a moment unlike any Ginny had ever experienced. She tried to remember Harry, tried to remember what it had been like to feel the rush of desire with him, but the memory no longer seemed to be there. It was as if this lust, this attraction to this cool devil and all his fire, had eclipsed any lust she had ever felt in the past. Maybe even any lust she could ever feel again.

"I will punish you for lying," he said. His fingers, which were still bunched in the fabric of her skirt, wiggled once almost playfully. "Then I will reward you for teaching me compassion."

Her lips curved in a smirk that mirrored the one he usually gave her. If the rigid hardness against her was any indication, she might have the upper hand for once. 

"Conditions are almost agreeable," she said, pausing to kiss him. She loved that he kissed back as hungrily as she did. There was power in holding such sway over a man of power like Draco, even if the power was only lust. "Only one thing."

"What's that?"

"I'm not having sex with you."

"Does the contract allow for you to change your mind during the transaction?"

"Oh ho. Quite a businessman, hmmm?"

"Just answer the question." One of his hands crept under the fabric to stroke the bare skin of her innermost thigh.

Their words were spoken in the most hushed of whispers, words of pure sexual banter in spite of their playfulness. It was hot proposition that rested on the table now. It was Ginevra Weasley, too hell-bent and stubborn to give in to what she really wanted, and it was Draco Malfoy, too trusting in his powers of charm and persuasion to move her to give in by any other means. It was sexuality at its rawest, a power struggle, a battle for dominance, a purely carnal endeavor.

It made Ginny shiver with pleasure just at the mood between them as she answered. "Yes."

He smiled and put her back on the ground, pinching her bottom as he did so. She wondered if his skin was on fire like hers so that every brush of skin on skin made him want to scream for more. He began walking up the staircase, not having to look back to know that she followed him.

As they entered his bedroom, Ginny looked around. It was decorated in blacks and silvers and blues, tasteful and neoclassic. It was a beautiful room, all sharp angles and edgy designs. She could not help but feel satisfied that she would be adding some curves to the space.

He kissed her again, so deft that he was lowering her onto the bed before she realized it. The silky comforter slithered erotically beneath her. He did not join her, standing back up and over her with his shirt untucked, his pants bulging. Her skin ached for him to touch her. The awareness that he stood between her open legs made her shiver.

"You promised you were going to let me give orders later."

"Yes."

"Tell me what you want."

Ginny's nerves kicked up in delicious hesitation. Her mind might love to shout things like that at him, but her mouth had never said something so brazen to anyone. He did not move, though, and she felt as if she would burst if he did not touch her. The seconds ticked by. She could wait no longer.

"I want you to touch me," she breathed.

She expected him to immediately do so, taking advantage of such carte blanche. He still did not move.

"Where?"

The question lit up a thousand places along every inch of her skin. "Everywhere."

He leaned knelt down at the foot of the bed, looking up at her from between her knees. His voice feathered over her. "Say please."

Ginevra Weasley could never have imagined that she would beg Draco Malfoy for anything, but a throaty please slipped out of her mouth before she could even think otherwise.


	5. Moods and Morning-Afters

Ginevra Weasley positively drowned in her own desire. In the dark, against the dark palette of colors of his bedroom, Draco did not look intimidating like she would have expected. If anything, he looked like a dark angel fallen from grace. She kissed his devil's mouth, slid her tongue in to taste him, as he tugged off her skirt, pulled her shirt, breaking their kiss for only the moments needed to give himself more of her skin. Her hands worked of their own accord, pulling off his polo shirt, fumbling with the white undershirt. His skin was hot under hers as her hands snuck inside to race over the lean body underneath. She purred as he moved his fingers down her sides, a dance that should have tickled but instead tantalized. Her breasts felt ripe and heavy. She wanted him to touch more of her, but he moved more carefully than that. As he dropped his mouth down to draw circles of kisses along her collarbone, she let her fingers skitter down to unbutton his pants. He breathed in sharply.

"You want me as bad as I want you," she realized in a husky whisper. Unashamed, he nodded. He pushed her unhooked bra aside, and she ached for him. Her nipples sprang to sharp points, asking him to touch them without asking her permission to want him that badly. Instead he nipped at her collarbone, just hard enough to hurt. She moaned.

"That depends, Ginevra..." His voice was a fire-breathing creature, stroking her skin and her lust as surely as a hand could. She pushed his pants down, and he obligingly finished the task. When he stepped out of them, she did not reach for his underwear yet. It was not principle that kept Ginny from ripping their drawers off. No, it was the luxurious desire for the erotic feelings to continue unconsummated, to play in this breathless, desperate anticipation. Draco seemed happy to steady the pace, as well, reaching up to pull the covers down. The comforter slithered over her skin, and she mourned for a second that its smooth texture would be lost. Draco's bed was obviously incapable of disappointing her, for the sheets were silver silk, soft as spun clouds. The coolness against her hot skin offered delicious juxtaposition.

Draco bent his head low; his mouth caressed his bite mark from only a few moments earlier, feeling like an unspoken apology for being too rough. Lower still, his skillful mouth moved to the sensitive, waiting skin of her right breast just as his hand reached up to cup her. Her hands gripped his shoulders, fingers sinking into the comforting strength of muscle. He moved slowly, so tantalizingly slowly that Ginny wanted to beg him to go faster at the same time that she wanted to thank him for knowing how good slow felt. Her nerves danced under her skin, following the magic sensation of his mouth drawing all the desire from inside her soul out to play. Finally, his mouth found her nipple, pebbled and waiting, and instead of a gentle touch, he used his teeth, pulling a ragged gasp of pleasure from her. His tongue flicked its devilish apology before he moved to the next breast.

On and on until she lost all sense of time and place, his mouth followed its pattern. Too rough, followed by a hot, moist apology… it was decadent how deliberate his sexual baiting was. Finally, he looked up at her from between her legs, a hand braced on either side of her hips, his eyes finally tearing themselves away from the most private part of her. She wondered if she should feel ashamed, self-conscious, or if this feeling of earthy, rich, passionate sexuality was entirely appropriate for bedding Satan.

"Are you ready to learn about orgasms, miss?" His voice tried to be flippant, but she could hear the desire, hot and thick, in it, and she could also feel the way his voice coddled the 'miss' as if it were a pet name. For one moment of shocking clarity and confidence, Ginny Weasley knew that Draco Malfoy was giving more to her than just casual sexual behavior; maybe hearts were not involved, exactly, but it was something beyond just bodies. For both of them.

Her muscles tightened from head to toe in anticipation as she nodded. Her nod was enough, and he pulled away her underwear, throwing it carelessly. He admired so nakedly that she blushed. He reached between her legs and curled his index finger through the slickness. She shocked herself with a throaty uninhibited moan. Then she was too shocked by the pleasure to even be shocked. His fingers probed, stroked, slid, caressed, teased, and triumphed as she squirmed and rolled her hips against him. The pleasure heightened, and she climbed a mountain, nearer and nearer the top until she thought she could go no higher. Suddenly, she heard his voice, sounding far away and almost savage in his restraint. 

"Does the deal stand as originally stated?"

Her hips moved against his fingers, but he did not help. He was waiting for an answer. The permission was on her tongue, wanting to be let loose, but she thought about what would follow. They would dress, say goodbye, and he would go collect his bet money. For a cold second, she remembered what this was all based on, before the look of hunger in his eyes made her forget all over again.

"Yes."

He did not look hesitant or hurt or surprised that her mind had not changed. Perhaps on some level he understood. Instead, his blue eyes smoldered, and he maneuvered up to kiss her, tasting her lips slowly and tenderly as two still fingers stood inside her. Their stillness made her muscles contract around them. She moaned against his mouth, and he leaned back a millimeter to whisper, "Ginevra Weasley, I think of the two of us… it is you who are the devil," and suddenly his mouth left hers and plunged to hot, wet work between her legs. It was too much for her, that desperate heat and fire and fire and fire… she climbed up again, faster, harder, and she saw the cliff for only a second before his tongue flicked upwards just so, and she plummeted. A piercing cry, ecstatic and carnal, broke the quiet in the bedroom, and in the after spasms, she lay limp and spent.

It was some time before she left the rushing, powerful sensation of orgasmic aftermath behind and came to her senses enough to look at him, reclining beside her. His muscles were still tight, his underwear, she affirmed with a glance, was still considerably tighter than could be comfortable, but he was not reaching for her or trying to push her past their deal in her postorgasmic glow. The respect and restraint was so unexpected, so un-Malfoy, that she reached for him, taking his hand in hers, rolling over, naked and stretched out and alive with pleasant feeling. Her entire body felt like Jell-O. 

"I will never again lie to you," she whispered, her eyes twinkling, and he nodded. A smirk bobbled at his lips.

"I know."

For a moment, she felt compelled to try to return the favor, to give him the pleasure he had given her, but the peace in the room stalled her. Silence fell, and he reached for the sheets to pull them back over them both. It felt so strangely intimate, lying there together in a comfortable silence, that Ginny closed her eyes drowsily. She was aware that he was watching her, meaning he would soon usher her out of the house for the night. In fact, he cleared his throat to do just that, but it seemed that the wrong words came out because instead of asking her to leave, she could have sworn he suggested she stay.

"What?" She echoed, sitting up, confused.

"Are you deaf? I was suggesting that you just curl and up and go to sleep here instead of going back to that appalling little dump you live in."

"That sounds like a kind offer..."

"You said you had taught me compassion. I'm practicing my lesson."

"You're doing swimmingly," she managed, lying back down. He reached over and put an arm around her, pulling her against his chest. Ignoring the feeling that she was in a foreign, parallel universe where Draco Malfoy was her real boyfriend, not a jerk-off guy just pretending to date her to win a bet, she laid her head against his warm, soft skin, breathed in his distinctly masculine scent, and closed her eyes.

"Let me see," Draco said, sounding so human, sleepy and relaxed. "The score is one to zero." 

Ginny did not know how to handle his seeming so normal. There was no devil in this tired, intimate, relaxed Draco.

"Score?"

"Number of orgasms given. I'm winning…" His voice trailed off towards the end, and she realized he had fallen asleep mid-sentence. She lay awake for a few more minutes, curled against him, and felt unexpected warmth in her chest. It felt like happiness.

Besides, it had to be a good sign about this Devil of a man that he considered it winning to give her more orgasms than she had given him. That was a sign of sexual selflessness, which may very well be the best kind.

Why was her faux-boyfriend turning out to only be a faux-asshole? This whole affair made more sense when he was the real kind.

\-----------------

Every morning, sunlight filtered through the filmy curtains into her one bedroom flat and woke her up before the chime of her alarm could break the silence. This morning, however, Ginny Weasley rolled over in luxurious sheets, breathed in the intoxicating scent of maleness and expensive cologne, and opened her eyes to night-time darkness even though her internal clock informed her that it was morning. The bed was empty beside her, and for a second, the memory of last night came rushing back to her, from start of delicious foreplay in her apartment to the ghastly dinner at The Burrow to the completion of foreplay last night… though not total completion, especially not for him. Where was he? She sat up, pushing her hand through her bedraggled mop of red curls and blinking blearily to try to adjust her eyes to the dark room.

No, he was definitely not in here. The asswipe had abandoned his own house in order to get away from her morning-after. What a douche –- wait, was that the sound of running water? She actually flushed crimson as she realized the shower was on; he had not left, had not hustled out of the house in a rush. Instead, he was taking his shower, undoubtedly getting ready for work. Work. She had better think about that too, and there were no clothes here that would actually be acceptable for her to go to work in, yet… for some reason, she did not want to get up and simply Apparate to her flat. Damn these silk sheets. The rich life had far too much appeal.

She rolled over and over in the sheets, creating a cocoon of silk around her, and then stood up, wearing her creation like a Greek goddess's toga as she waddled (in a significantly less than goddess-like manner) towards the sound of the shower. When she cracked open the bathroom door, a wave of steam rolled out, and she stepped into the sauna warmth of a dream-home bathroom. The ceiling was high and arched, the tile was red and cream, with silver fixtures, and there was a huge Jacuzzi bathtub, and a shower, which he was currently occupying. Most impressively, there were dragons etched in the tile above the bathtub. The dragons were beautiful, etched with almost intimate attention to details, inlaid silver eyes (she was noticing a real attraction to silver in the decoration of Malfoy Manor), and twin broad wings spread wide. It looked like a guardian… its beauty lay in perceived power rather than menace.

"Good morning," she announced, and a wet, blonde head popped out from behind the curtain to look at her. He looked distinctly grouchy, and she stifled a giggle at the sight of him with shampoo suds on his head. 

"Are you getting ready for work here?" His sharp, cold tone snapped away her smile.

Caught off-guard by the abruptness of the question, she stammered, "If that's okay."

"Yes. Fine. It is fine. There is a bathroom down the hall on the left. If any of the house elves are in there, just shoo them out." He popped back into the shower as if she did not exist. Offended, she stormed out and slammed the door, marching down the hall and leaving her sheet-dress in a heap on the floor. Where was his morning-after glow? Now, realistically, she knew that him offering her her very own bathroom to get ready in was actually kind treatment, but that reality did not faze her when compared to his brusque, impersonal way of offering it.

Ginny did not know when she suddenly started demanding more from Draco than his money and the prestige of dating him, but she could tell that respect was not going to be enough anymore. She had seen too many glimpses of affection, glimpses of admiration at her spunk, and she was going to demand those from him as long as he was in her life, faux-boyfriend or not.

_You don't get to lick me where the sun don't shine and then be irritated to see me in the morning, bucko._

Still fuming, she walked into the bathroom he had directed her towards, and she was surprised by another shockingly beautiful interior design. This bathroom was green and silver, and the Slytherin serpent was etched above this bathtub, a glorious piece of artwork that was inlaid with emerald cut-glass. The snake was not intimidating or fierce, just primal beauty captured in artwork. The towels were emerald-colored too, and she picked one up, running the thick, plush material through her fingers. Was it just money that allowed a man to fill a house with such beautiful things, just the ability to hire people to make it perfect, or was there something indicative about a person if they surrounded themselves with such loveliness?

She took a steamy shower, impressed by the detachable showerhead's massaging stream (and the promise of uses it could have in the future), the exotic floral scent of the shampoo and conditioner she had found in the cabinet, and the foaming bubbles the soap created that floated through the bathroom like a child's bath time dream come to life. Her bad mood had evaporated by the time she had toweled off, and she strolled back the bedroom to put on her clothes again. She hated wearing clothes two days in a row, but her outfit from yesterday would be acceptable work attire where wearing a set of Draco's clothes would not. She dressed and toweled her hair off. With a flick of her wand, she evaporated the wrinkles in her skirt and proceeded to curl her hair loosely. She remembered the first time her mother taught her how to use the heat spell and her wand for hair touch-ups anytime. Now she was so skilled at it that she didn't even need a mirror. When she finished, she looked around for Draco. Where was he now?

Following her nose – to the scent of food, not his cologne – she walked down the winding staircase to the kitchen. Three house elves were scurrying around, and the smell made the fragrance in The Burrow last night smell like garbage. Draco was sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee in one hand, the Daily Prophet in the other, and a suit on that probably cost an obscene amount of money. He looked so handsome it was breathtaking in that black and white ensemble, with a blue tie that matched his eyes. They looked up at her, and a trademark smirk crossed his lips before he took sip of his coffee.

"You look absolutely as ravishing as you did yesterday… I wonder why." He put his fingers to his chin as if genuinely considering the question as he looked yesterday's clothes up and down. In the twinkling eyes and smile threatening to peek out, she saw none of the irritability she had encountered upstairs. She looked at the nearly empty cup he was holding and thought of Ron and how grouchy he was in the morning. Perhaps Draco Malfoy was not a morning person. Another human trait peeking through the seemingly flawless exterior.

"You're making jokes and remembering who I am now?" She said as she dropped into the seat beside him. "A few minutes ago, you didn't seem to notice that I wasn't just your every-night hooker cleaning up in the mornings." 

A house elf, a petite little creature with a pink nose and bulbous brown eyes, placed a cup of coffee in her hand, and she murmured a comment of gratitude before taking a sip. Apparently it wasn't just aromatic coffee; it tasted exactly how coffee smelled, every bit as rich and magical. Had she ever had a cup of coffee before this one? Good heavens, it was delicious. She took three solid and very unladylike gulps of the coffee (which was somehow the perfect temperature… how did everything Draco did, even indirectly, turn out perfectly?).

"I never allow my hookers into that bathroom," he sipped again, "I have a certain fondness for it, since it was my bathroom growing up."

"You mean the Dragon Toilet Room wasn't always yours?"

"Sarcasm does not flatter you, Ginevra. But no, the master bathroom was not always mine. It was my mother and father's when I was a child,"

"Speaking of which… I know where your father is…" Azkaban was not a subject worth breaching so early in the morning. "But why is your mother not living here still?"

Draco stiffened, and there was sudden, visceral coldness between them. An invisible door slammed shut between them. Ginny knew she had asked a question he did not want to answer -- his eyes alone made that clear -- but that the Malfoy manners – those fickle, charming, dark manners that had been ingrained in him since birth – would not allow him to remain silent. 

"Narcissa is a Black by blood, not a Malfoy. She may not own the Manor without my father, so when he lost the property rights as a result of his sentence, it passed directly to me."

She gasped. "You kicked your own mother out of her home of twenty-some years?"

Draco turned away coldly, rising to his feet. "She had other more suitable accommodations at hand."

He waved a hand at the leftovers from his breakfast on the table. It seemed he had eaten some sort of fruit scone and a helping of bacon. The house elves hustled over to clean it up. 

"Anything you would like to eat, just ask and the elves will make it for you. I have to get to the office. I have an employee meeting to direct first thing this morning."

"You make no sense to me," Ginny said, looking into her coffee cup. "You give me a life-affirming orgasm after only a few weeks of bet-related dating and you won't even give your mother a home after she pushed you through her vagina into the world."

Draco made a face. "You are a foul, uncouth creature. Have some breakfast. Go to work. Come back here tonight and figure me out until I make sense to you?"

"We'll see. Give your mother a home and I'll get back to you?"

"See you tonight, Persephone." He said with a smirk. He Apparated before she could even get the joke. 

Draco Malfoy was going to be the death of her, and she didn't know yet if that would be in a good way or a very, very bad one.

\------------------

While she had heard many times before that it was bad to only pretend to work while on the clock, Ginny had never actually noticed any consequences at her particular job. Apparently the Ministry did not need her regular productivity for survival. The thought was a little tragic, for who wants to be useless, but today, it just opened doors for her to pretend to work while she actually culled through paperwork on historic properties, looking for the legalities of Malfoy Manor.

Narcissa Malfoy's property ownership woes were none of her business, and she understood that, but she could not resist the desire to know more. Was there really a stipulation requiring a by-blood Malfoy own that piece of property and real estate, or was Draco simply trying to save face with her by pretending such a stipulation existed when really he had just de-housed his own mother? She looked through another folder and thought of something Hermione had once mentioned about muggles and computers. That sounded a lot more magical than hand-filed paperwork. The wizarding world needed to catch up.

Finally, having located the M's in the historical estates folder, she quickly removed the document she was interested in and slunk back to her cubicle. What excellent spywork, Ginevra, her inner devil – pardon me, her inner Malfoy – praised before realizing that she was spying on him. Then he fell silent and cold, just allowing the good side of her conscience to speak. Unfortunately, there seemed to be no angel on her shoulder to reprimand her for stealing legal paperwork and prying into other people's business. That was a little disconcerting. Weren't Weasleys supposed to have an angel on at least one shoulder?

 _Yoo-hoo, Clarence? I'm snooping on my boyfriend. Is that a problem?_ Her shoulder was silent.

 _Stealing paperwork is bad,_ she tried to admonish herself, but her interest in the paper drowned out her attempt at angelicism and she started reading, quietly aloud to herself.

"Malfoy Manor can only be under the ownership of authorized persons designated by the family tree as result of blah blah legal jargon blah…" She frowned. "I have no idea what this shit means."

"You could ask me. I'm not bad with legal jargon," a voice announced in the doorway, just meek and kind enough to instantly infuriate Ginny. What was it with people thinking her office was not private, thinking they could just walk straight in if they were not her boss? Just because she was a low-level peon here at the Ministry did mean she was below other people… namely Hermione Granger, who was in medic's robes and looked positively saintly, like she was just on break from saving lives. Her smile seemed to say "Look at me. I'm important, brilliant, and making a difference in the world. Have you done anything today?" Ginny looked at her un-filed paperwork and her stolen reading material and felt a momentary blip of shame. Luckily it passed.

"I am sure you are bad at more than enough things to make up for it," Ginny remarked off-hand, and Hermione looked stung. Ginny should have been above taking petty cracks at the other woman; they had years of positive history, and one affair, however ruinous, should have been something that she was able to get over. After all, she could hardly blame Hermione for wanting Harry freakin' Potter. It was practically societal grooming. Hermione had been trained by all the stories of childhood to believe that she, as a nerd, deserved to be lifted from her lowly status by the love of a superior man. See? When she looked at it that way, Ginny found she could be much more benevolent.

"Sorry. That was rude," Ginny replied. Her tone wasn't entirely apologetic, but it was better than nothing.

"No, it's okay. I understand… you're still mad at me."

"Mad at you? For what?" Ginny's tone was still cool -- and her sarcasm, perhaps unbecoming -- but she managed a smile. Hermione's brown eyed widened at the smile, however, and not in an appreciative way. You'd think she would show a little gratitude to me for trying to be civil, friendly even, she glanced at her reflection in the mirror and realized why Hermione was not grateful. She wasn't smiling; she was smirking, just like Draco Malfoy. This would be why they warned people about consorting with sin, temptation and deprecation.

"Sleeping with your boyfriend?" Hermione seemed to be trying to make a good-natured jab, smiling nervously, trying to have them interact on the same level. Did she understand nothing about social norms? She was not allowed to take jabs at the girl whose boyfriend she slept with. Silly Hermione.

Unfortunately, Ginny realized that it did not actually bother her to think of the affair anymore. She felt bitterness towards Harry just for his sheer stupidity and his lack of concern about all her time that he wasted, but the actual occurrence no longer tugged a heartstring. So she actually no longer had an acceptable excuse for her unkind comments towards Hermione, and yet she kept making them. Maybe she wouldn't make them if the damn angel on her shoulder would show up for work sometimes, instead of just the Draco on the other shoulder.

 _You're not doing much up there, buddy._ She sent out another mental beacon to the absent angel. No response.

"I forgive you. Really, I'm just lucky that I wasn't tied up with Harry by the time Draco came along. You can consider yourself an agent of fate if it makes you feel better," Ginny replied in a lofty, superior voice. "I've never had so much fun in my life."

Then she realized she meant what she had just said; it was true. Lord Jesus, help her, she was starting to not hate Draco Malfoy. She looked down at the paperwork in her hand. She needed to prove to herself that he had kicked his own mother out of her home and fast. Otherwise she would never get both feet back on safe harbor.

"Well, I'm happy for you, Gin. That's actually the reason I came by to talk to you. I was hoping you would help me with something. It has to do with his mother."

Ginny's eyes popped wide, and that clever Disney ditty of "It's a Small World" started to jangle annoyingly in her brain. What on earth could Hermione Granger know about Draco's mother? It had to be something related to St. Mungo's.

 _Well, well, well… thank you for your visit,_ she thought, _Now tell me everything._


	6. Infiltrations and Infirmaries

She was obviously living in the _Twilight Zone_ , that old muggle television series with the funny, supposed-to-be-scary music and bad special effects. Only in the Twilight Zone would Hermione Granger have been seated in her office, talking about Narcissa Malfoy, and only in the Twilight Zone would that conversation lead to Ginny leaving the office after work and going straight to St. Mungo's to see her faux-boyfriend's infirmed mother.

_"Her health is so fragile anyway. We were concerned that… well, not to be offensive, Ginny, obviously, because I'm certainly not a pureblood, but we were concerned that the shock of hearing that her son was dating a blood traitor like a Weasley might have been a serious blow to her health. She has not been eating or sleeping properly."_

Ginny shook her head as she walked down the clinical white hallway, visitor's badge clipped to her shirt. It was hard to imagine the sour-faced matron of the modern Malfoy clan so affected by the news of her son's love life that she could not eat, but it was also hard to imagine that snake of a woman lying in a hospital bed for the last four years. Hermione said she had suffered a massive stroke directly after her husband's conviction and sentence to Azkaban, but Ginny found that hard to believe. Once Hermione had left, she had checked the Ministry Records (what was a little more paperwork stealing compared to ignorance of her faux-boyfriend's mother's condition, after all?) and found no record of Narcissa Malfoy having ever been in St. Mungo's except for the birth of her one and only son.

So, even though Hermione had not suggested she come by (instead, she had suggested that she talk to Draco about the situation), Ginny decided to take the initiative to investigate herself. She remembered reading Norris Duplats novels when she was a kid; he was the greatest wizarding detective ever, and he was a master of putting together the puzzle pieces to present the complete picture to the unsuspecting perpetrator at the end of the book. She would be Norris Duplats today and solve this mystery.

Even to her rather off-kilter way of thinking, the whole concept sounded horribly juvenile, and she was struck by the urge to just go home, change clothes, and then go to Malfoy Manor for an evening with that devil of hers. Then she thought about how cold and remote he had gotten this morning at the mention of his mother. No, she had to figure this out.

She stepped a little more authoritatively now, hand in her bag, ready to pull out her Ministry badge if necessary. Everyone in the Ministry knew she was just a glorified secretary, but her badge was still as good as anybody else's, and she was not afraid to use the clout she did not have to get results. As she heard the steady click-click of her heels on the sanitized floors, she appreciated her decision to actually look professional this morning.

Reaching the healers' station on the long-term patient floor, she breathed in and gathered her mental state. She reached into her new memories of watching Malfoy's charm and authority in action. The night they had eaten their extravagant dinner at Knitholder's, Draco had shown such presence. For someone like her who was constantly overwrought and out of her depth, his authority had impressed. Now, having gained a little more insight into "The Man, the Myth," she understood where that presence came from, and when she spoke, she tried to emulate his cool, polite but no-room-for-questioning manner.

"Excuse me, ma'am. I'm here for visitation with Narcissa Malfoy."

Okay, so the first attempt was a little stiff, but the nurse still looked obediently through her paperwork. Then her forehead furrowed in obvious confusion.

"Ma'am, I don't see any evidence of Narcissa Malfoy being a patient here…"

Ginny felt a tingle of nervous anticipation as the plot thickened. Hermione would not have said Narcissa was here if she wasn't. So even if the Ministry paperwork and the nurse's knowledge said otherwise, Ginny knew it was just a matter of finding her. She drew herself up and nodded curtly.

"There must be another paperwork debacle. I swear, if there are any more mix-ups, we are putting her in private care. Would you mind directing me to the head of this wing, please?"

The please was too much, Ginny knew. Draco would never have added a please to that request. He used his manners in the most effective way possible. Still, it seemed to work just fine on this nurse who nodded and seemed grateful to pass this nuisance on to someone else. Ginny ignored her burgeoning glow of pride at her own amateur theater skills.

"I'll show you the way," the nurse replied, stepping out from behind the desk and moving down the corridor. Now was the time to tighten up as she faced The Next Round. The nurse knocked on a large wooden door, and a voice announced that it was okay to come in.

"Hello, sir. This woman is requesting to see a patient I cannot find record of us having. She wanted to speak to you." The nurse's voice was meek, and Ginny could see why. The man seated behind the massive mahogany desk looked more like that famous muggle Arnold Schwarzenegger than who she would have expected to see as the authority figure of St. Mungo's most important (and profitable) floor. He looked much more like brawn than brain, and judging from the frown on his lips, he was not the most welcoming of executives.

The nurse rushed out, pulling the door shut behind her before he could speak. His frown deepened.

"I can assure you, madam, that if there is no record of a patient being here, that person is not here." His voice was marked by condescension. 

_Put on your Malfoy face. Look tough._ She took a few steps towards the desk and invaded the space, bracing herself on her hands.

"I am here to see Narcissa Malfoy," she replied. She tried to arch an eyebrow but found she could only move them together. She snapped them back down for fear of just looking shocked rather than intimidating. The executive's face betrayed nothing as he met her gaze and slowly, deliberately shrugged. It was such a rude, unprofessional gesture that Ginny bristled. No one would ever shrug that way at Draco.

"I cannot help you because she is not a patient here at St. Mungo's."

_Easy now, Ginny. Know the Malfoy. Be the Malfoy._

"Sir," Ginny began in a soft, sly voice, taking a seat in the plush chair across from his desk. The image of the file, showing no evidence of Narcissa ever spending time in St. Mungo's, and then of Hermione in her office, speaking earnestly, both floated to the surface of her thoughts. Who did she trust more: the government who wrote her paychecks and supposedly protected the entire wizarding world or the backstabbing friend who stole her boyfriend not too terribly long ago?

Was it bad that the answer was, in fact, the backstabber herself?

Even if it was bad, she was going to go out on a limb anyway.

"Sir, I am entirely aware that under public knowledge, Narcissa Malfoy is not a patient here, but I am not speaking from public knowledge. I am Ginevra, Draco's fiancée," she paused, feigning a cold surprise as if her next thought had just occurred to her. "Oh, perhaps you are unaware that Draco and I are engaged," The lie fell off her tongue all too easily. She felt little shocked by it, but none of that shock showed itself on her face. "But I am happy to clear up the matter for you. I know that Narcissa Malfoy is here, and when I ask to see her from now on, I expect to be directed there immediately."

His face twisted unpleasantly, a frown contorting his lips like a slug beginning to shrivel up and die in the sun. She watched him struggle between his desire to tell her to get the hell out of his office and his fear that she really was going to be Mrs. Draco Malfoy and would have his job for his impertinence. She liked this power thing. Being a Weasley had never (and probably would never) possess this kind of clout. She waited him out, trying to keep the giddiness off of her face. Finally, he grunted and stood up.

"This way, ma'am," he growled, obviously concerned about the decision he was making. Triumph roared like a lion in her head, but regret nipped sharply on its heels. There were too many lies layering their way into her life. Holding her head up higher, she shooed away the regret. She was not changing; she was merely playing in a different arena now and learning how to keep up. The director led her down long corridors, through doors that only seemed to open to the touch of his own wand. It gave off the distinct impression that no one was supposed to be here.

Then it happened; suddenly, they were standing in a private ward, with nurses buzzing around a sick bed like worker bees. The woman on the bed was unmistakably Narcissa Malfoy but not at all how Ginny remembered her from childhood. Her long blonde hair was sickly, like depleted straw, and her skin looked translucent, so pale that the veins beneath the surface threatened to push through and spill all her blood onto the white sheets. Ginny recognized a modified Bubble-Head Charm on her to aid her breathing. The woman on the sheet could not be the Malfoy queen; she barely looked human anymore.

In an instant, though, Ginny knew that Hermione had lied to her. This creature looked half-dead; there was no way she was too distraught by news of Draco and Ginny to eat or sleep. She could probably do nothing but sleep and probably could only eat with assistance on the best of days.

"As you can see, we are following the most stringent requirements for her care, and she is remaining steady. Why, she even squeezed a nurse's hand just this morning, I believe." The director's false bravado annoyed Ginny as she stood there in a swirl of confusion. Why was there no record of this obviously very ill woman being here? Why had Draco not simply told her that his mother was in St. Mungo's? Why had Hermione lied to get her to come here? Was Hermione one of the nurses on this team?

"That's excellent news," she murmured distractedly, moving towards the bed where Mrs. Malfoy lay. Inexplicable sadness welled up, and Ginny reached out to touch the cold, leathery hand on the sheet. The fingers hung like limp flower petals, resisting neither Ginny nor gravity.

"We are working very hard for her, just as your family wishes."

She waved a hand. "You seem to be doing a very good job, sir. We appreciate your hard work." He smiled, appreciative of praise bestowed from even a future Malfoy. Malfoys paid their bills and then some when it came to the wizarding world. "I must ask, though. Has Hermione Granger been working in this ward?"

The director immediately shook his head fervently. "No! We would never disrespect Mr. Malfoy's wishes that way! It is only the approved team of nurses and staff. You can assure him that Ms. Granger does not even know of this ward's existence." He looked frightened, and Ginny felt a pang of shame. He was afraid of having displeased the mighty Malfoys, and she could not say she blamed him for that. She reached out to touch his arm.

"Excellent work. I have seen all I need to see this evening. I will tell Draco that everything is perfectly satisfactory."

"I'm glad you feel that way, madam! Give Mr. Malfoy my best." He was flushed with relief.

"Oh I will." Ginny turned away to start walking, suddenly struck by the terrible burden of all this new knowledge, all these new questions. It had been easier to believe that he was just a beautiful bachelor, flitting about in the uncomplicated world of sin.

But Satan could not have a mother lying in a hospital bed like that. It was finally proven. Draco Malfoy was human.

\------------------

When Ginny arrived at Malfoy Manor that evening, she could feel the menace in the air. There was no greeting as she walked in the door, no stir inside the mansion, and the butterflies in the pit of her stomach soared up to wheel in frantic circles in her throat. She had cleaned up, put on fresh clothes and come over, enthused about eating good food, spending time with Draco and not thinking about the new mystery that she had injected into her life. That was obviously not what was going to happen tonight though. The silence felt ominous.

"Draco?" She finally called out, ashamed to hear a tremor in her voice.

"I am in the kitchen, Miss Weasley." His voice called back, dull, cold, and low. She rounded the bend of the hallway and stepped through the double doors into the kitchen. Draco was seated at the table. It should have been a very similar picture to how he was this morning, seated there with his coffee, but instead, it was another sight entirely. Morning Draco's Evil Twin had come to town. His hair was rumpled, his tie undone, his jacket tossed over another chair. His eyes glowed – no, smoldered – as he looked up at her, and clutched in his hand was not an innocuous coffee mug but a generous tumbler full of rich liquor. His clothes, his hair… she had never seen him look disheveled before now. He looked like a fallen angel, decadently beautiful but harsh, angry. The sight took her breath away on more than one level.

"Isn't it a little early in the evening to be drinking?" She managed, and he looked down at his glass thoughtfully. "How much have you had?"

He shrugged and kicked one leg out straight, his body draped haphazardly.

"How much has he had?" She demanded of a passing house elf, who just squeaked and raced away. She turned back to him.

"I have had several," he replied, voice low and venomous. She looked at the glass in his hand. It was much too large for drinking hard liquor, let alone multiple glasses.

"Merlin's beard, Draco. You must be sloshed." She dropped into the chair across from him, surprised at the very thought. In her opinion, Draco was too collected of a person to have the ability to get drunk. She tried to imagine him stumbling along the sidewalk of Diagon Alley, carousing and singing drinking songs, and found the image so absolutely impossible that his imagined face disappeared off his imagined body, which somehow became fat, until the image was not Draco at all. See? Impossible to imagine.

"I am not. Just inebriated enough to be too clumsy to take your head off with my bare hands." His voice was a growl. "I set out to get that inebriated before you got here in order to protect you, though God only knows why I should do that."

"What?" She jerked backwards involuntarily. No man had ever threatened violence against her before, not that she really believed Draco would have ever taken her head off with his bare hands. He didn't move from his casual position, but he met her gaze. Her throat wobbled under his scrutiny.

"How dare you invade my privacy in such a way as you have today, my dear fiancée?" He spat out the last word, and in that single word, she knew that he knew everything. Of course, that director would have contacted Draco about her visit, just to double check. She looked at his blazing eyes, his strong fingers clenching his glass of whisky. It was hard to swallow, but she did, and she forced her eyes to continue to meet his, forced up Gryffindor courage that she only half-had in the face of this anger.

"I did nothing wrong." Her jaw was set stubbornly, and excess energy itched under her skin. She stood up and paced her way to the kitchen island.

"It was none of your business!" He roared, slamming his glass down on the table. Their eyes locked again, and she felt a fiery flare of anger. Irrational though it was, she wanted to know him better than he was letting her. She didn't want to go to bed at night with a facade. Perhaps she should care that he was deceiving the Ministry or something like that, but she was just angry for her very own selfish reasons. She deserved to be let into his life more than this.

"When I'm sharing your bed, having you home for dinner at The Burrow, kissing you, spending all my spare time with you, I deserve some fucking honesty, not the bullshit lines you feed other people!"

"Who fed you a bullshit line? I just didn't feel the need to let you into every aspect of my personal life."

"Only your bed!"

"We're only dating because you considered it a satisfactory alternative to just satisfying the terms of my bet immediately," he informed her coldly, rising to his feet. In her anger, she was satisfied to see him swaying ever-so-slightly on wobbly legs as he advanced on her. "It does not give you the right to know anything about my life."

His voice did not wobble at all.

"Don't fucking lie to me, Malfoy. You're not mad at me for looking into this matter. You're mad at me because I won't play your games exactly the way you want them played. If I walked out of this room right this second and never came back, you'd be upset. Dare I say it? You. Might. Even. Cry," she hissed, leaping to her feet. The sparks she felt shifted, a tiny bit of levity sneaking its way into the moment through previously invisible cracks.

"I would only be rid of a nosy, foul-mouthed, inferior, coarse blood traitor bitch." She could hear the cracking of the ice in his voice, though.

"And I would be rid of an arrogant, close-minded, stupid son of a bitch who's only good for his money and sex!" She retorted heatedly. "Any of the more charming qualities I thought I saw in you must have been fake because a man who possessed those qualities would not leave his sick mother rotting in a back ward of St. Mungo's."

She paused and narrowed her eyes. "And he also would not have lied to me this morning about why his mother did not live here."

"Ah, now we see the real bone our selfish little Weasley wants to pick. You are only upset because you feel like I lied to you," He stepped backward, leaning against the wall for support. His eyes no longer looked as icy now. Instead, he looked terribly, terribly tired and more than a little drunk. He was feeling the whiskey even more than she had originally thought.

"Do you want the truth, Ginevra? You want me to tell you every painful, horrific detail?" Now his voice was anguished, and she stepped backward. Suddenly she regretted everything. She shouldn't have pried. As quickly as her desire to know had taken root, a fear of doing so took over now. She was in the wrong, and she was too stubborn to admit it. She shook her head slowly.

"You lost the choice. Sit down, Ginevra. I am going to tell you," he said, his voice a punishment all its own. Suddenly trembling, she sat down. He looked tortured. No longer just a decadent fallen angel, now he looked as if God were punishing him for his misdeeds, as if his soul were burning through him from the inside out. His eyes glowed, not with anger but with pain. She hated it in an instant. This was not Draco Malfoy. Draco Malfoy could never look this tortured. Except that he did. Anger completely forgotten, she moved toward him and reached for his hand, wanting to apologize, perhaps to stem the tide of the words that she knew were about to force their way out of him. He did not allow her to take his hand before he started speaking.

"Several years ago, as you know, no doubt thanks to public opinion and your research into my family today, the Wizenmagot sentenced my father to life in Azkaban for his crimes against the wizarding world. After his sentence, he was permitted to come to the Manor one last time, accompanied by two Dementors, to see my mother. They used an Attachment Charm to allow him access to only my mother and to prevent his escape, as if the promise of a Dementor's Kiss was not enough for that already." He laughed a bitter, humorless chuckle.

"I was here, in the Manor, but because of the particular nature of the charm, and my dislike of Dementors, I chose to remain upstairs in my room. I heard my father's familiar heavy footfalls, heard my mother crying, begging him not to go. She loved him so much, damn her. Would have gone to Azkaban herself just to waste away at his side if they would have let her. Suddenly, the sounds downstairs changed, and I heard her scream. When I got downstairs, my mother was lying on the floor. There was blood everywhere..." His eyes were far away, his mind seeing the moment again. "She was screaming, and my father was being restrained by Dementors." 

Draco lifted his eyes to Ginny's, and she shivered at the cold, hard pain shining in them. She moved back to the chairs, taking a seat again.

"He had grabbed her wand and tried to kill her. Killing her would have ended the Attachment Charm and given him a chance at escape. Her life meant that little to him apparently. It was worth killing her to have a minimal chance at escape…" He shook his head. "Unimaginable selfishness. The Dementors took him away. He was already sentenced to life, so attempted murder could not lengthen his sentence, and the Kiss is only for those whose escape attempts are more successful. So he was taken to Azkaban."

"My mother… at first, it was home care, but she deteriorated being here in this house. She could no longer speak eventually, barely even touched consciousness anymore. I think she gave up, suspended between not wanting to live without my father and unable to live here with the knowledge that this Manor was where he tried to kill her. So, I paid St. Mungo's handsomely, still do, for them to build a private ward for her. For the occasional photo opportunity, I brew a Polyjuice Potion and allow 'Narcissa' to be spotted shopping about London or visiting the Ministry about some matter or another. It is not," he spoke fiercely, "for my father that I worked so hard to create and maintain the elaborate secret. It is for my mother. It is impossible to bear the thought of the world knowing that my mother, my dear mother who has always wanted the best for her family, died at the hands of her husband. She may be just a shell of a person now, but that shell has private care, a private ward and the ability to sleep in peace until she passes away."

He sat down in the chair across from her, and whether it was emotion or liquor that slurred his next words, Ginny would never know. He leaned forward, and she smelled whisky and his cologne.

"I will not let you judge me for that."

She was at a loss for words. There was no question that it was all the truth; nothing about him was capable of lying right now. Now she reached out for his hand again, and he let her take it. There was no anger left crackling in the air. Only shock and sadness and the cold feel of shame creeping down Ginny's spine remained.

"Draco…" She murmured. "I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have pried into your business. You were right."

His blonde head dropped to rest on their intertwined hands, and Ginny felt stark, overwhelming tenderness for him, this man who put up a front for the world to protect his mother, this boy who had to witness the horrors of his father. He had come home early, in shock and anger that she had known his secret and taken to the bottle to calm himself before she arrived. Despite how hard he seemed to want to think otherwise, this Malfoy was no villain. She stroked the soft hair, fingers combing through the snarls that his fingers must have made earlier. The tenderness fluttered against her heart like butterfly wings.

"Now you know," she heard him say weakly.

"Now I know," she echoed, continuing to stroke his head. They sat there for what felt like an eternity, just touching and resting in silence, healing from the harsh words spoken earlier. Finally, he looked up. His eyes, at last, were a little unfocused as if after the fighting and the explanation, he had finally succumbed to the alcohol.

"You confound me, Ginny." Her eyes widened because she had never heard him say her name that way before. "Fifty thousand Galleons is starting to not sound like enough for sex with you, if it is going to be accompanied by all this meddling and name calling."

She frowned, feeling stung, but then a strangely clumsy hand reached up to touch her cheek. "But I'll be damned if I don't want you around, meddling and name calling and all. I think you've bewitched me, you crafty Weasel."

It was hard not to giggle at this uncharacteristically earnest, playful comment, slurring slightly from his drunken mouth. She smiled. "What can I say? I suppose I'm partial to ferret."

To her surprise, he laughed and kissed her cheek. "Good. Now help me to bed, you meddling bitch. I think my feet are full of whiskey."

She helped him up and wondered how it was possible for so many things to be in her heart at once. With every thump in her chest, she feared it may burst.


	7. Ladders and Lies

Her life had been reduced to the tick of a stopwatch in the background. Three weeks and four days were gone out of the month they had bet on, the month they had together. Ginny could have easily walked away from the sexy, recklessly rich bachelor who strolled into her office and propositioned her that first day of this bet, but now… she was feeling less sure she could just stroll away from the sexy, recklessly rich, surprisingly witty, and shockingly intoxicating boyfriend she was dating. .

Their terrible fight in the kitchen and his drunken revelations seemed a lifetime ago. Since then, there had been long, delicious dinners out to try new foods; trips to the theater to see her favorite band and his favorite play; evenings in the Manor, curled up together reading without speaking; and nights tangled up together in bed. Sparkling in all those memories were an array of dizzying kisses, tender embraces, witty conversations, sexcapades that never actually fulfilled the terms of the bet, and a lot of affectionate tossing-around of the word bitch.

Now it was a beautiful Saturday morning, all sunshine and fluffy white clouds and soft sprigs of green grass tufting out of the ground beneath blossoming trees. Or maybe Ginny just saw it that way because much to her surprise, Draco made her happy. It was a simple idea, hardly worth articulating, but it resonated in the hollows inside of her and warmed from the inside out. Even with that stopwatch running in the background of her mind, she felt content.

The sunlight streamed through the kitchen window, warming her back. The house elves were gone –- she had suggested they have a day off, and even though Draco had looked very puzzled by the concept, he had acquiesced –- and she sat on the polished counter, swinging her legs and laughing at the paint swatches Draco was holding up.

"I'm not painting your living room," she said, shaking her head. Wayward strands of her red hair tumbled out of her jaw clip to fall around her face, and she frowned, pursing her mouth and blowing upwards to get a strand out of her eyes. It floated up and fell right back into place. She repeated the process before realizing he was watching her with a raised eyebrow, mouth twitching at the corner. When she had settled and seemed to be paying attention again, he replied.

"You dismissed my house elves on a weekend when they had a full schedule of painting to be done," he reasoned. "So pick a color and put on something you don't mind getting painted."

She looked at the swatches in his hand, one pale green and one pale blue, and made a face. Then her eyes dropped to the several swatches in his other hand, the ones not being offered as an option.

"I like the darker one, with the sort of red hue."

"You would. Ginevra, this color does not match the furniture and is not an option for the living room." He looked down at the terracotta-colored swatch to confirm his opinion. She reached forward to grab the front of his shirt and tug him closer, fingers itchy to be on him, and he obliged, filling the space in front of her. He dropped a kiss on her head and then rested his chin on top of her hair.

"The furniture in there is so old anyway. You don't even like the room now. You could get new furniture," she said into his chest.

"The furniture in there is antique, not just old, and for someone who grew up in abject poverty, you would think you would jump less on the idea of getting rid of perfectly serviceable furniture just to change a room's color."

"I didn't grow up in abject poverty. I just didn't have a silver spoon shoved up my ass."

"Your language, Ginevra. So coarse," he lamented. She grinned. His sense of humor was never going to lose its sarcastic, insulting qualities, but it had certainly grown on her. He was a formidable challenge. Stepping back, he looked right at her, eyes warm where they should have been cool. She met his gaze while her stomach fluttered with silly butterflies.

Suddenly, he tossed the terracotta paint swatch at her. "Paint my living room terracotta or whatever the hell you want. I'll buy new furniture."

She laughed. "Are you developing a soft spot?"

"No, I'm developing the good sense to know that spending money hand over fist is worth it if it stops your nagging," he replied. "Now, go put on your painting clothes, Miss Weasley. I'll go get the paint, and we will meet back here in the Manor in… twenty minutes."

Ginny did not fail to notice that before he walked towards the stairs, he completely ignored the fact that she had said she would not paint his living room. With a good-natured sigh, she lifted her wand. With all the back and forth between her apartment and his Manor, it was starting to seem like even Apparating was too time-consuming. She would rather just walk upstairs to get her clothes… but that would mean moving in, and the stopwatch in the background showed only three days remaining.

\----------------------

"Have at it." Draco Malfoy was lounging on his couch when she returned to the Manor with two pails of paint sitting on the floor, along with paint brushes and rollers and pans and ladders. His elbows were bent, his head resting on his hands, and he feigned a yawn as if he were about to take a nap. Ginny had obediently put on ratty clothes, but just because she had shown a small level of submission did not mean she was totally giving in. The push and pull were just too much fun.

"Get up and go put on old clothes. You're going to help me," she announced, clapping her hands together. He raised an eyebrow.

"My dear sweet Ginevra… I do not do menial labor in my own Manor, surrounded by servants, or in this case, when my girlfriend is going to do it to make up for being a nosy bitch two weeks ago."

She moved over to the couch and leaned forward, eyes sparkling. "Your girlfriend has been making that up to you for two weeks," the purr in her voice leaving no question as to just how she had been making that up to him. "In fact… if I remember correctly, we are tied."

"It's childish to keep track of orgasms," he scoffed.

"You started it," she replied, holding out her hand. "Now get up and go put on old clothes. We'll paint this room and then do something more fun this evening."

"Do I get to choose the 'more fun activity' or do you?"

"You can choose."

"Suddenly I'm feeling more accommodating." He rose to his feet slowly, stretching out his muscles, and she admired the way his body stretched and moved under his clothes. Over three weeks with him had helped her reign in some of the hormones that made her incapable of appropriately functioning around him, but it had made other hormone flares much worse. Now it wasn't just his body or the wicked twinkle in his eyes that turned her on; it was the whole package, no pun intended, and that made the flares of desire all the more potent. "I'll be right back. At least open the paint cans without me, you lazy girl."

"Hurry up, rich boy," she countered, bending down to pry the lids off of the paint cans. She loved the color; it was rich and earthy. It would bring vibrancy and life to the living room. The bathrooms and bedroom she admired so much upstairs were in contrast to the rest of the house, which like this living room, were pale all over, dull colors with old furniture. Of course, she knew it was not her home and therefore it was silly to spend so much thought process on what she liked about it and what she didn't, but she liked the idea of watching the spaces transform into something better.

She was stirring the paint when Draco Malfoy came back in the room, and her heart stopped for a second.

"What are those?" She gaped at him. He was wearing jeans splattered with multi-colored stains, with a tattered hole ripped out of the left knee, and a white tee-shirt stretched across his chest, also stained. He was even barefoot.

"Painting clothes."

"You… what… you… whose are those?" She spluttered. He walked over to her, put a finger under her chin and pushed upward to close her open mouth. His eyes were amused as they met hers.

"They're mine, Ginevra," he said. She reached over to tug on the shirt, stretching a handful of it closer to look at a splotch. It looked genuine, almost like a wood stain had spilled on the shirt. Looking back up at him, she frowned as if betrayed.

"How did this get here?" She attempted to wave his shirt with its most prominent stain at his face, which just resulted in jerking him around awkwardly for a second before he grabbed her hands and pulled his shirt out of her grasp.

"From working on the house," he replied, promptly turning away and picking up a paint can to fill a tray but not before she spotted amusement twitching at the corners of his mouth again. He began filling a tray, setting to work with an ease that suggested experience. 

When her confusion faded from paralysis to normalcy, she got to work herself. She stuck a brush into the paint aggressively while the wheels in her head turned and clicked. Draco Malfoy worked on the house enough to own stained, bedraggled work clothes. Of all the revelations about his personality and his lack of villainy and the (un?)fortunate discovery that he was not actually the Devil incarnate, this revelation was the most shocking. He knew how to work around a house? How did he keep those hands so nice if he did real work? The questions, inane and somehow even more inane, swirled in her head for seemingly no reason.

"Ginny?" He queried as he set up his ladder and climbed up with a tray full of paint and a roller. "It's not like you to stay silent for more than two seconds unless you're asleep."

She looked down at the rich terracotta paint, so unlike the downstairs with its pale colors, but not so unlike the upstairs, with its elaborate carvings and rich, dramatic jewel tones. Perhaps that was why he had agreed to it so quickly… He had done those bathrooms himself. That upstairs she admired so much was his handiwork. Her insides felt gutted, and she had no idea why. She looked at him in fresh shock.

"Draco Malfoy, you lying bastard," she said, feeling the odd expression on her face. He looked surprised for an instant but then seemed to recognize the realization on her face, and he climbed back down off of the ladder.

"Be reasonable. I did not lie. You never asked me about my housework activities. I certainly don't do laundry, after all," he replied calmly, holding out his arms to her as he spoke. She shook her head. An odd feeling grew in her chest, pressing on her lungs, making it hard to breathe. Something strange was happening to her insides, constricting them, and another realization, even more dramatic than the realization that Draco Malfoy soiled his hands by doing his own painting, was coming towards her from somewhere far away in the back of her mind.

"You lied to me," she said. He seemed alarmed, in the same helpless-cornered-animal way as he had the night she had fake-cried in his foyer. "You lied to me for my entire life."

"What?" He was thoroughly confused now; Ginny could tell, but she did not care. She was just hitting her stride. She frenetically waved her paintbrush in the air, sending terracotta paint flying in a dramatic splatter that landed on his neck. An unnoticed (at least by her) plop also fell on her hair.

"You lied to me. All my fucking life I've thought you were an arrogant, careless, reckless, heartless, stupid, lazy, rich bastard who was evil and stupid and hateful…" She felt a sudden surge of anger, unexpected and inexplicable. "You lied to me! All this time! You are generous with your money, you have a great sense of humor, you would do anything for your mother, you protected me when my family was mean to me, you treat me right, you know how to be polite and charming not just because Satan employs those charms but because you actually are, you get grouchy in the mornings just like human beings, you are amazing in bed and we haven't even had sex yet, you don't support your father and all that shit, and…" She drew up a shaky breath, suddenly close to angry tears. "You paint your own fucking house!"

"Ginny…" He was utterly bewildered now, trying to reach out for her even as she swatted his hands away.

"You misrepresented yourself! You lied! If I had always known, I could have stayed far, far away from you so that we wouldn't be standing here like this right now!" Her voice climbed into hysterically high notes, and apparently willing to conquer his fear of hysterical females for Ginny, Draco finally caught a hold of her, gripping her arms, looking searchingly into her face with frantic eyes.

"What in God's name are you talking about, Ginny?" He demanded. Her eyes locked on his, wild around the edges with fear, and that realization that had been approaching from the back of her mind finally arrived, like dynamite in a mine shaft, blowing away all the denial she had been wrapping away.

She had fallen in love with him. This was no longer a fun fling, a step-outside-of-good-girl-Ginny. This was no longer even just a deal with the devil. This was her standing in front of a charismatic, handsome, compassionate, witty, challenging man she had fallen in love with after years of misjudgment.

_Fuck. My. Life._

"I love you, you stupid bloody Slytherin, and it's all your fault! If you hadn't lied and misrepresented yourself, I would have known to never make this bet with you and end up in this mess!" She burst out, and suddenly, she was crying, tears blurring over her vision of his stony, shell-shocked face. She buried her head in his neck, smearing the terracotta paint she had splattered on him all over her nose as she cried. She was crying for her heart that had so foolishly tumbled into love with Draco Malfoy, crying for her inability to refrain from blurting things out in front of him, and crying for their relationship built on a bet that expired in three days. He wasn't even saying anything, just holding her and stroking her hair, probably because he knew that there was nothing comforting he could possibly say. She felt the racing beat of his heart slow to a steady thump as he held her.

When he reached down and lifted her tear-stained face to his, she noticed that his eyes were blank before they closed. That blank look made her insides clench uneasily. His lips were hot, though, like a match to gasoline, and she rocked up into him hard, kissing him with a fiery desperation. His taste was a hit of heroin, like a cure to a disease she didn't even know she had. He gripped her hard against him, pulling her up as she wrapped her legs around his waist. He carried her upstairs, and she clung to him as they kissed, gripped one another tight. They were already tearing each other's clothes off as they tumbled onto the bed. There were no words to be said. Ginny's "I love you" still clung to the air between them, but they ignored it as they fumbled for one another.

It was as if subconsciously they knew this was the turning point. Once they started speaking, once words started flowing, things would change. The balance they had been living in would be gone, changed, and likely irreparable. The only way to stave off the change was not to speak.

So they did not, and unspoken, they both knew that either way, the bet no longer mattered. So this time, when they were both stripped down to nothing but hot, bare skin, they kissed with a new intensity. He ran his hands over her fiercely, and she pressed into him. The sudden, harsh arousal hung so thick in the air that sweat had already broken out on their skin, glistening in tiny beads, as their mouths and hands devoured one another, as if any taste could be the very last, any touch could be goodbye. When his hand finally slid to the wet heat between her legs, she caught him before he could even slip a finger inside. His fingers could not do what she wanted in this moment.

"Not this time," she whispered, the first words spoken since her confession, and he nodded his understanding, kissing her again, pressing his weight closer to her. His kiss heated her, demanding but reassuring, his mouth whispering to hers – without words – all the promises of sexual pleasure and intimacy. His knee pushed her legs apart, and he knelt over her. He cut an image above her, cock in his hand, that made her moan in anticipation. He guided himself into her without shielding either of them from the view. They watched together as he slid in, millimeter by millimeter, and the visual made her gasp even as the stretching intrusion made her come undone. She whimpered under his breathlessly slow entry until his final push brought every inch of him, hard and huge, inside of her. The release of the moment came with twin groans, each of them overcome. She pressed her nose into his neck, smelling heated terracotta paint and the masculine scent of skin and sweat, as he rocked into her, taking on a slow rhythm that stroked her up to dizzying pleasure. It filled her, heightened her senses, and rocked her hips against him of their own will. He persisted in his gentle movements, persisted in his slow, certain rhythm, slowly feeling his way to her depths as she clung to him.

He moved his mouth down to one expectant breast, taking her nipple between his teeth even as he pushed into her very core, until he seemed to fill every inch of her, until all she could do was moan, a sound that sounded like a plea for more. He drew himself up, paused above her and drew himself back, the very tip of him the only place they were touching. Looking straight into her eyes, he repeated the slow, tantalizing entry with just a bit more speed than the first time, just a bit more urgency. Her moan followed his motion, rising louder and louder as he pushed until she believed he had gone to the deepest place… and then he went just a millimeter further, and she exploded, the climb of her pleasure peaking and falling sharply even as gravity turned her loose. The orgasm rocked her to the core, heart and mind and body, but Draco did not let her simply fall, holding her against him as she bucked, moaned, and then shuddered still.

Only once she had returned to sanity from her pleasure did he begin again, his rhythm changed. He moved faster, harder, and she caught hold of him, fingers sinking into the hard bone of his shoulder blades as she clung to him. He forced her to climb again, rising again on that wave of pleasure so intense it almost hurt. She heard her cries echoing through the room, moans that could have been mistaken for pain if ecstasy had not so clearly been the cause. His muscles were tightening against her, and she pulled him still closer, moved her lips to his ear and let her hot breath carry her moans straight to his ear, straight to his heart. This time, it would be together. He shuddered against her, his movement stalled, and suddenly her hips moved for them, pushing him into her, pulling him closer, taking over the rhythm.

Her world shook in cataclysmic loss of gravity as his release brought her another.

\-----------------

When Ginny's mind floated back from its journey through post-orgasmic orbit, she was curled against his chest, lying in a tangle of sweaty arms and legs, two bodies breathing hard. What had just happened? One minute, she had been standing there, yelling at him for making her fall in love with him, and the next minute, they had been stumbling to bed as fast as they could, rushing into the act that she had been fantasizing about for weeks. Their downstairs conversation felt like too long ago, buried in a blur of raw desire and intense, unsolved emotion. It didn't even make sense. Why had sex felt like the instant answer? Why had they both leapt immediately into bed?

And why were they still lying in silence except for their still-heavier-than-normal breathing?

She lifted her chin to look up at him, rolling over onto his chest so she could meet his eyes. They were stormy blue now, intense and aloof, and she felt the lack of warmth or intimacy there instinctively, like a cold chill to her bones. The silence felt heavy, like a velvet blanket around her head in summertime, but she dared not break it. He had begun it, hadn't he? He had kissed her instead of answering her when she blurted out her feelings.

Why had she done that? Why had she not been capable of showing restraint? She had been showing restraint for weeks now just by not jumping in the sack with him, and now, not only had she blown that wide open without thinking about it, she had done something much bigger. She had dropped the L bomb right on Malfoy Manor like the Germans had done to Britain in World War II, only then it had been a real bomb, not a figurative one. But it was still looking like this one had been just as destructive. The silence was speaking so loudly that Ginny wanted to cover her ears with her hands and scream to try to drown it out.

 _Say something. Fix this._ Her brain screamed at him.

"You lost the bet with only three days left." His voice was strange, cold and distant as if he were not talking to her or even seeing her. She felt his hand against her hip tremor slightly.

The silence took over again until she managed enough air from her lungs to push seven words through her dry, constricted throat: "Is that all you have to say?"

The silence stretched out once more.

Finally, she stood up slowly. Suddenly her entire body lost all sensation of glowing orgasm; instead she felt black and blue as if he had beaten her from head to toe. Every place he had touched ached as if seared by a brand. She could feel the outlines of every fingerprint against her skin, burning. How could he just sit there in silence? She looked down at her skin, streaked in terracotta paint from the places it had lurked on their bodies originally. She looked as if she had been slashed by a velociorapter, gaping wounds striping her body. She felt worse.

She dressed slowly, moving as if in a horrible trance. As she stepped into her underwear, as she zipped her pants, as she hooked her bra, she waited for him to speak again.

How was he sitting there in silence?

How was he failing to acknowledge any of what happened?

How had her beautiful Saturday gone so horribly wrong?

Once her shirt was back on, she turned to look at him, long and lean and naked, watching her with cloudy eyes.

"Looks like you won your bet," she said acidly, turning her back and walking out with tears welling up in her eyes. The tears stung, and with each step, they changed from pain to anger. Her walk turned to a march. She stomped on the stairs, slamming her feet down as hard as she could, doing anything to hide the fact that her breathing was beginning to rush out in pre-sobbing gasps.

He did not come after her.

Not even when she hit the bottom of the stairs, slammed into the living room, picked up a paint can and hurled it with all her might onto the stairs.

Not even when she kicked over one of the ladders and spilled the other paint cans all over the polished floors.

Not even when she screamed before Disapparating.

Not even once she had been sitting in her apartment, shaking and waiting, for two hours.

He did not come after her at all.


	8. Drinks and Dances

Waiting three days to cope with pain is never a good idea; Ginny Weasley came to this realization as she watched the glass of firewhiskey in her hand blur in and out of focus. She felt somewhat certain she was holding the glass still, so either her eyes or her mind betrayed her with all the wobbling.

It was Draco's fault anyway; he had been such a sinfully elegant drunk that she had decided that would be the most graceful way to ease the pain of realizing he was never coming after her. After three days of stumbling through her routine in a cloud of shock and denial, she had finally come home tonight, sat down, and pulled out a bottle of liquor. It had looked comforting, and after a little, it had felt comforting, too. It took the edge off the ache in her chest, turning it to dull, throbbing pain instead of something sharp. But after another several rounds of self-medication, she was back to square negative six: emotional agony.

She loved him. That stupid motherfucker. She loved him.

She reclined on her couch, upper body propped haphazardly on the arm. Her bottle of whiskey was officially out of her reach, even though it was only about three feet away. That was three feet more than her body was willing to move at this point. So the remaining liquid in her glass was all she could get to, and since the glass was no longer sitting still (or her hand was moving – it was impossible to discern which one), the chances of her consuming it were looking unlikely. She tried to concentrate very hard on the glass, squinting, so that she could at least get it to her lips to swallow it and avoid spilling it, but that level of concentration made her head hurt.

"Owwwww…" She groaned slowly and dropped the glass on the floor with a thud as she concentrated on making her mouth move in a sound of pain. Damn alcohol. Letting her head loll back over the arm of the couch, she closed her eyes, and the world's violent spinning slowed considerably. That was better. _Slow and steady, Ginny-girl. Just sit still and don't think about anything else. Just be still._

Her thoughts were not so obedient. The snapshot of their bodies tangled together had seared itself on her brain, a sizzling brand in the pink-grey cerebral flesh. The terrible coldness that followed the image still burned inside of her like frostbite. Combatting these pains, her brain decided to pepper her with even more painful images: The Falling-In-Love montage. Laughing, heads bent together cozily, bickering, even arguing, like a real couple, dinners out with delicious food and intelligent conversation, that first dizzying kiss in his kitchen… those images were so incredibly sweet and sharp and painful that they made her want to struggle her way over to the bottle of whiskey and indulge until she passed out.

Was he sitting at home perfectly okay, eating fine cuisine alone in his kitchen, with house elves waiting on him hand and foot? Or worse, was he eating with someone else, a pretty, new buxom blonde with a lilting laugh and sexy blue eyes? She closed her fists so tightly that her fingernails dug crescent-shaped indents into her palms. So, this is what it felt like to mean nothing to someone she loved. The pain of her breakup with Harry had been anger, white-hot anger and indignation and shame that something so degrading had happened to her. This was not anger or shame; this was pain. She just had to pray that anger and shame came along later.

What had she fallen in love for if this was how it was going to end, with her slumped on her couch, sad-drunk for the first time in her life, soul stained with a footprint as if Draco had stepped on it and squashed it into the dirt?

There were no pictures, no papers, nothing to document that they had ever been anything. How had she been so foolish, to let herself fall in love? They had just been two smiles in the dark.

"You'readamnfoolGinevraWeasley," she muttered in a dark slur, tapping her toe to an inaudible beat and lapsing into silence and relative numbness, welcoming the return of a little bit of the shock. Seconds or minutes or maybe even an hour passed in the blurry quiet.

A knock on the door jarred her attempts at finding peace, and she frowned, forcing her eyelids open. The light and colors of her room assaulted her.

 _I have to answer the door._ The thought was fairly cohesive so she felt compelled to obey it. She slowly eased herself upright into a sitting position, swaying slightly. _I've got this. This is not hard. I'm a Weasley. I've been standing up for years,_ she thought as she toppled over sideways onto the floor with a loud thud. Her elbow twinned in protest pain, but the fuzziness of her intoxication blurred out any other such sensations. _Good whiskey,_ she praised its efforts.

"Ginny, are you okay?" The voice of the person at the door shouted. It was familiar, but her fuzzy brain could not place it. In a raging internal debate, her body tried to decide whether to just collapse there on the floor for the night or hands-and-knees her way to the door. Some drunken part of her mind deemed crawling more polite, so she began the precarious task of dragging her unusually heavy body (damn alcohol) across the floor until the door was so close it bumped her nose. Then, in a climbing task to rival tackling Everest, she scaled her way to the doorknob and twisted it. The door opened with her body weight, swinging her backwards like a carnival ride.

"Helllooo," she greeted, looking up into eyes that were green, not pale blue, and a face that was concerned, instead of smiling. "What're youdoin here, Harrrrry?"

"Ginny?" He sounded taken aback by the state she was in, and she was suddenly too tired to try to explain. She just held her arms up weakly and let him take them to help her up. In the sudden relief of warm arms supporting her, she let herself pass out.

\---------------

Coming to consciousness was slow and painful, and her eyes opened so gradually that for the first few seconds, she could see nothing through them. Then a lightning scar and emerald eyes came into focus. Harry was holding a wet cloth to her forehead, dabbing at her skin with a gentle concentration. She recognized his expression; it was the look parents give a child who has scared them badly. Remembering throwing firewhiskey at him a month ago, she could have felt a little sheepish. Instead, she had to focus on trying to understand the words coming from his moving lips.

"… never drink like this." He was finishing his sentence, brow furrowing.

"M'heart's broken," she mumbled, tongue heavy and fuzzy. She stuck it out between her lips and looked down, trying to see if it looked different than usual. Harry gave her an odd luck, so she nonchalantly slurped her tongue back into her mouth.

"No, it's not, Gin. C'mon, you're better than letting Malfoy get to you like this,"

"N'm not. Draco was…" She closed her eyes again as the flood of images assaulted her again.

"At least if it was going to end, it ended sooner rather than later, before anyone could get really hurt."

Ginny tried to imagine what being "really hurt" would feel like if this agony wasn't it. Harry should have known she had tried to convince herself of every angle about why she did not really love Draco or why it could never have worked out, but none of them rang true. It could have worked; she had felt that. They fit together, fire and ice to one another, perhaps, but they did fit. She was certain of that; it had been Draco who had failed them, not their ability to be together. His cold silence, finally followed by too-cold words, had destroyed them.

"I fell'n love w'him," she whispered suddenly, fiercely. The planes of Harry's face seemed to sharpen in surprise. Ginny started to cry. To admit it so bluntly, honestly, in front of Harry, who had once done her so wrong, was insult to injury. She just needed someone to hold her as the big, fat teardrops raced down her cheeks. "I fell so'n love w'him that I'cannot bear't."

"Shh, you're going to be okay," Harry murmured, putting a hand on her head to stroke her hair, and she reached out for his other hand, struggling her way closer to him. Understanding her unspoken cue, he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her against his chest. She cried into the warmth until she fell asleep.

\-----------------

In the morning, all that remained were the pounding headache, the nausea tumbling in her stomach, and a note on her bedside table in Harry's messy scrawl. It read:

_Feel better, Ginny. Will owl you tonight about making some plans with all of us. Getting out of the apartment will help._

She frowned. Ever since Harry and Hermione had decided to capitalize on whatever animal magnetism they had, the group friendship had dissolved, but she still knew exactly who Harry meant when he said "all of us." He could only mean himself, Ginny, Ron, and Hermione. The foursome that had spent so much time together, two couples, two siblings, a slew of friendship amongst them all. She had been the farthest from the group, the biggest outsider even then, but her inability to forgive either Harry or Hermione had held her further at length. Now after a month dating Draco, she had forgiven them without realizing it but had moved further to the outside. She had no idea if getting out of the apartment under those circumstances would help.

"I'm taking a mental health day," she muttered, rubbing her temples and sighing. "If I don't, I may actually kill someone."

So, with that decision made, Ginny took a shower, dried and curled her hair, and put on a pair of jeans and a clean shirt. She was going to go shopping; that always made her feel better, even if it made her wallet feel a whole lot worse. New shoes sounded particularly good, some brightly-colored, candy-loud heels that would make her legs look a mile long and her spirits brighter. Yes, that was what she would do. Spend a day shopping. She would have to ignore the searing headache, but surely that was doable.

Walking into the kitchen, she put some tea on to brew. The temptation to pour vodka in it to go ahead and imbibe the hangover with the alcohol it wanted was getting pretty great, so she fought it off by eating a bagel. Leaning on the counter, she felt like melancholy dumpee in a modern painting, put-together but somehow still sloppy and eating her troubles away. When a knock on the apartment door got her attention, she just frowned. Why in God's name was this suddenly a hotspot? Couldn't everyone just leave her alone?

"Come in if you're not Harry," she called out and instantly regretted speaking so loudly because it made her headache pound uncomfortably again. The apartment door swung open, and there were Ron and Hermione. Apparently, the whole Golden Trio was going to visit her in her wallowing. The joys of being the baby Weasley were never-ending sometimes.

"Harry's been here?" Hermione asked. Ginny, who could have felt a stab of satisfaction, just felt the urge to correct Hermione's obvious misunderstanding. It was a bitch to be over the whole Harry-cheating-on-her thing just when it would have been exciting ammunition against Hermione, who had also, come to think of it, been the cause of her and Draco's colossal fight over Narcissa.

"He came by last night to see if I was doing okay since the breakup," she said calmly, maturely, hating that she had lost the ability to be backbiting just now. Hermione, however, did not look as relieved as she should have. In fact, now Ginny noticed that she and Ron both looked terribly uncomfortable. He was fidgeting ever-so-slightly from one foot to the other, and Hermione was twirling a bushy strand of hair on a nervous finger. Pouring herself a cup of tea, too hungover and selfish to offer them a cup, she took a sip, burned her tongue and cursed profusely. They looked unaffected, too busy fidgeting to notice her vile language, and she frowned.

"Okay… what's going on?" She leaned against the counter and tried her best Draco Malfoy-style stare-down. They shifted uncomfortably again.

"Well, Ginny, there was a reason I came to you about Narcissa…" Hermione began, but she was abruptly cut off as Ron, face beet-red, jerked forward and blurted out,

"Hermione and I are back together."

Ginny looked at them in surprise, eyes darting from one to the other. It just showed how out of the loop she had been; she had not known that Harry and Hermione or Ron and Miranda were broken up. Draco had been one time-consumin' bastard, hadn't he? She thought of Harry coming by to talk last night and how she had been too drunk to even find out what. Maybe he had been coming by about the breakup?

"When did you two become single again?" Suddenly the sheepish look between them, fraught with guilt, spoke volumes, and Ginny was truly shocked. "No!"

"We didn't mean for it to happen!" Hermione wailed. "I was trying to explain to you… I had realized a while ago that I had made a big mistake leaving Ron, but he seemed so happy with Miranda..."

"She was a very nice woman," Ron interjected. Hermione nodded and pressed on.

"But then he broke up with her, and even though I didn't know why, I found myself hoping it was because he still loved me. I knew how upset he was about you and Malfoy, so when I found out about Narcissa, I thought that might be the catalyst you needed to realize how wrong for you he was. When I went to talk to Ron about it, and when I was explaining how I felt, he just grabbed me and kissed me and said he wanted me back… now… and…"

"Oh my god, I can tell this story ends up in bed, so please don't tell me anymore!" Ginny's poor hungover head was spinning even faster now. Hermione had cheated on Harry with Ron now? What had Harry come over here for last night then? Did no one respect the sanctity of her wallowing over a broken heart? Did they have to drag her into their Hogwarts-style drama of relationships going awry? After all, she was a mature adult trying to get over the heartbreak... of losing a sexual bet.

 _My judgment pants might be getting a little tight, after all,_ she observed.

"How're we going to tell Harry?" Ron's face fell now. Hermione seemed a little calmer; Ginny supposed that was because she had been in this whole cheating situation before.

"We came to tell you because Harry suggested we ALL go out tonight. The four of us. So… we were kinda hoping…" Now Hermione flushed a red to rival Ron's. "Maybe, since you're single again, you could kinda… flirt with Harry again. Remind him of…"

Ginny's eyes widened. "Remind him of what?" Her voice turned caustic. She took a sip of tea to prevent her from saying anything else until that question was answered.

"Not of you two!" Hermione revised hastily. "More like… reminding him of how much fun he might have with someone else… besides me… again…"

Ginny stared at the couple in front of her. Ron had slipped Hermione's tiny hand into his, stroking his thumb across hers. They had been fighting and breaking up and making up and loving each other since they were kids, and even though she did not understand how something like infidelity could be forgiven, she knew that love did not have to make sense. She thought of Draco, their laughter and banter. Shouldn't at least someone be happy? She sighed.

"Alright, I'll do it," she conceded, managing a half-smile. The soon-to-be-happy couple grinned at each other.

"Thanks, Ginny. You're a lifesaver! I know it's really not right of us to ask so soon after you and Malfoy broke up…" Hermione gushed. "But thank you so much!"

They stayed for a few more minutes, shooting the breeze, avoiding the subject of Draco Malfoy or Harry Potter, and Ginny sipped her tea and tried to pretend her head was not throbbing in time with her heart.

When they got ready to leave, Ron offered a small tender moment as Hermione walked to the door. He patted Ginny's shoulder.

"You're a good sister. I'm sorry things didn't work out the way you wanted them to." For Ron, it was such beautiful sincerity that Ginny hugged him tight. Then he and Hermione were both gone, and the quiet of the apartment felt oppressive.

 _Life's a bitch and then you die,_ Ginny thought, taking a swig of tea and burning her mouth again.

\-------------

The day should have been full of shoe shopping but instead was spent reading a romance novel on the couch, pausing only long enough to make the plans for a night of drinking and dancing. When evening approached, Ginny walked into her room, opened her closet door and searched for something to wear. But instead, she pulled out the marvelous emerald dress that Draco had bought her the night of their first date. It was beautiful. She thought of how radiant she had looked in it, how his eyes had glinted with wicked appreciation, and how it had revealed her first glimpses of his smile… and suddenly she had picked up a pair of scissors and was carving it up. It was not true mutilation… no, it was an overhaul.

She put on her new creation and redid her hair, turning her waves into bigger, sexier curls. The mirror itself seemed to smile at her. As long as one did not notice the cool sadness of her eyes, she looked smoldering. The dress no longer had straps, just a wicked sweetheart neckline; it no longer had a gauzy graceful skirt that skimmed her knees. Instead, it was short, with a wicked slit up the side, revealing even more creamy white thigh. It was a sex bomb dress. _Take that, Draco Malfoy._ She could be anything she wanted, even in the dress he had bought her. Her red curls were a fiery frame to the Draco-like smirk on her lips, and she was headed out for a night of not giving a damn about him… even if it killed her.

When she Apparated into the heart of London and marched into the bar, in a dress that was a little too hot and heels a little too high, she felt the first wonderful surge of anger. Thank God. The Weasley temper was kicking in. How dare Draco Malfoy do this to her! The inside of the Golden Trio's favorite nightclub was hectic and colorful and vibrant, but it was not as eye-catching as Ginny herself as she strolled in, spotted her companions for the evening, and took a seat beside Harry. His open appreciation made her smile, and even Hermione and Ron looked surprised.

"Hey," she said simply, reaching for the drink sitting in front of Harry and carelessly taking a sip.

"Gin… you look great." His eyes were wide.

"Thank you, Harry," she replied with a gracious smile, though the compliment strangely held no warmth for her. Chatting began, and the surprise at Ginny's dramatic dress and devilish smirk passed as they sipped alcohol, buzzed lightly, and laughed at the littlest things. Sometimes she thought she saw Ron reach to touch Hermione a little too intimately for just friends, but Harry didn't seem to notice. He seemed too enchanted by Ginny's smile and fierce determination to have a good time in spite of a heart she had told him was broken.

"Harry, do you mind if I borrow your girlfriend for a dance?" Ron asked finally, enough liquid courage in his system to be brave.

"Go ahead." Harry agreed with a smile, and Ginny felt a stab of sympathy for him. He was about to feel the karma of what he had put her through. As Ron pulled Hermione out to dance, Ginny chatted with Harry. They talked about work and friends and Quidditch, and when the conversation veered too close to Draco, Ginny put her hand in Harry's and led him onto the dance floor.

The song was slower than she would have liked, but she gamely rested her head on his shoulder and let him guide her around the floor. He was hardly the same clumsy dancer as in the Yule Ball days when it had been Neville who had graced the floor and Harry who sat out. Now Mr. Potter was quite the dancer himself. It was unfortunate that it was hard to hate him now. He was handsome, intelligent, being cheated on himself, and seeming to regret having lost her… but not being able to hate him was not comparable to being able to love him.

_Damn you, Draco Malfoy. You're making me miss a golden opportunity to return things to the Original Plan._

"You really do look amazing tonight, Ginny," Harry told her, "Draco's a stupid man to let you get away…"

Ginny suddenly felt terribly uncomfortable. His warmth and kindness in the face of her knowing she was here to flirt and distract him made her stomach hurt. Draco's cool voice flitted through her mind, unbidden, _Then let go of him, Ginevra, and go sit down._

Well, that settled that. She was not listening to Draco anymore, even if he was disguising himself as her conscience.

"Well, everyone has to make their own decisions," Ginny replied diplomatically, offering a smile that she hoped had no flirtation in it.

She swallowed sharply and glanced to her left. No Ron and Hermione to save her in that direction, to offer a distraction that could lead them back to the table and the group of four and get her out of this deception. She glanced to her right. No Ron and Hermione but… Her heart stopped, and her breath froze in her lungs. Draco Malfoy was strolling towards them, and his pace eliminated any illusion she might have had that he was not coming toward her. Right now, his blue eyes were anything but cold; they were on fire. His jaw was stubbled, his eyes hard and hot, and his stride was furious. She was not the only one who had gotten angry. It seemed Draco Malfoy had found his anger too.. For some unknown reason, she braced herself for him to grab her or say something biting and humiliating, even though she knew he would never.

But her bracing was entirely wrong because Draco Malfoy did not grab her. He grabbed Harry by his shirt and jerked his face towards his.

"Get your hands off of her, Potter."

Harry looked shocked yet again this evening, but Draco's eyes switched to Ginny. She still couldn't breathe as his hot eyes took in her dress, her mutilation of the beautiful, princess dress he had bought her. She imagined a flicker of pain in them as he let go of Harry and turned towards her. He opened his mouth as if to speak, and now Ginny knew that she was not imagining the vulnerability in his eyes. She willed her lungs to work again so she could speak before he could, cut him off and not let him hurt her again.

But Harry beat them both.

"Ginny's not yours, Malfoy," Harry spat, taking her arm and stepping in front of her protectively. Draco turned and shocked every bystander there by rocking back his fist and punching Harry straight across the jaw, a prize-winning knockout punch that bloodied the mouth and knocked down the victim. As Harry staggered backwards and lost his legs entirely, tumbling to the floor, Draco rubbed his knuckles, smeared with blood, on his pants. He looked like some sort of barbaric warrior; a wizard resorting to his fists instead of his wand, a Malfoy doing so of all people.

"She's nobody's property," he said darkly, turning back to look at her. His eyes met hers, and her knees almost wobbled at the intensity she saw there.

She felt numb and shocked and confused and hurt and embarrassed. All she managed to push through her lips – which were trembling, the traitors – was,

"What the fuck do you think you're doing, Draco?"

"What the fuck do you think you're doing, Ginevra? Going out with Potter, after how he treated you?" He retorted, stepping towards her. Her heart skipped like a rock on a pond, thrown by a particularly skillful child.

 _Touché,_ she thought, though the pit in her heart knew that Draco had treated her no better. The music of the slow song changed to a thumping beat, and the strobe lights started up.

She wanted to move, but she felt rooted the floor, wondering what the hell happened now.


	9. Apologies and Allies

The silence of the alley outside the bar roared deafeningly in her ears; Ginny had been kicked out of a bar for the second time since she had gotten tangled up with Draco, which was coincidentally also the second time in her entire life. Draco was having extraordinary luck at throwing her for a loop-the-loop, a twisting, turning, tumultuous maneuver that sometimes left her breathless and sometimes nauseated. Right now, she had the extraordinary sensation of being both at the same time. His handsome face, his eyes burning with intensity she could not understand, took her breath away at the same time that the memory of their last day together made her sick to her stomach. They stood squared off, distance between them that Ginny prayed was enough to keep him from hearing the hammering of her heart.

"Look what you have done to that dress, Ginevra," he finally muttered. It sent a pang of anger shooting through her brain that he could even think of the dress after everything that had happened, a dress he had bought her merely in hopes of winning a sleazy bet, a bet which he had won in the end anyway. Go him. Maybe that simple fact explained why he gave a damn about the dress in a moment when he should have the decency to give a damn about her. "It was so beautiful and elegant on you before you ruined it."

"A few minor modifications – improvements, you might say." She snarled rather than spoke, feeling grateful for the anger. It could almost balance out the way her pulse thrilled at being near him. It may have only been a few days since everything had fallen apart, but she felt a thousand years older than she had standing in his living room confessing her love that Saturday. Even a thousand years older, though, she was enchanted by him, bewitched by the sight, smell, and sound of his presence. She hated him for it and hated herself for it even more.

"You could not improve on that dress. It was perfect for you just the way it was." He doggedly stuck to the subject, no malice in his voice, no ice, but surprisingly none of the cool, calm, unwavering composure either. In fact, his voice was surprisingly flat and lifeless.

"It's just fine like this," she hissed.

"It lacks class."

"I don't feel classy tonight. I feel wild."

"Then you could have worn a different dress."

She threw up her hands in complete exasperation. "Why the hell are we talking about my dress? It doesn't matter! It's just a dress! You can buy a thousand more for your next girlfriend!"

He fell silent again, looking at her with those intense eyes, and she felt her emotions rollicking inside of her like a stormy tidal wave, threatening to tear down the very walls her heart was working so hard to build. He looked tortured somehow, staring at her in silence and swallowing around a lump in his throat. She did not know what the hell he thought he was doing looking so anguished after he had ruined everything. After what he had done, he had no right to sweep in and save her. Even if she had needed to be saved, even if she had gotten back in to water over her head yet again. God, she was pathetic.

"Speaking of next girlfriends…" He finally spoke again. There seemed to be a lot of "finally spoke"s in this conversation on his end, and she interrupted caustically.

"Oh, do tell. Is she beautiful?" Her heart ached in her chest even as her bitter anger lashed out at him.

"That is not what I was going to say. There is no new girlfriend. I need to talk to you, Ginevra," he said slowly. His voice held an odd quality, as if he were trying to fake his usual cool manner but was not succeeding. Something showed through his cracks, unidentifiable but there. She liked the fact that this did not seem to be easy for him; with how she was suffering, he deserved to suffer more.

"Then talk. I'm standing here, listening, now that you've gotten me kicked out of the bar with my friends," she retorted, thinking of her friends who had probably scurried back into their homes like mice fleeing from a cat sighting. None of them were brave enough to want to deal with this relationship mess; they saw her the same way she had originally seen herself, a girl playing with the devil. They might not suspect how bad it truly was though; they might not understand that somewhere along the line, she had sold him her soul.

"I have been drinking ever since Saturday, after I called the house elves back in to clean up your awful mess. I needed the alcohol to settle me out, to help me think, and I have done a lot of thinking. I know what to do. I thought about everything that happened Saturday, and I know the solution." He was speaking slowly, cautiously, and with an overzealous eagerness as if he was trying to convince himself of whatever he was about to say as well as her. "You said you loved me, felt misled by my so-called 'bad' qualities, and I know that it is not true. You don't love me, Ginevra! You're far too smart to love me. You want someone dependable and honest and scrupulously kind and compassionate. You want someone who will never put you down."

"I would be a terrible real boyfriend, Ginevra. You would realize that you do not love me so fast if we dated; in fact, you would even grow to hate me. That means we simply cannot try that. We get along too well to let something as stupid as dating and thinking we feel things we do not mess us up. We have good conversations and good… chemistry and we make each other smile. There is no reason we can't go right back to how things were… as soon as you realize how much you do not love me, it'll be easy and happy again. I am happy when I spend time with you, Ginevra. Very happy. I want to go back to that without you being silly and thinking you love me. That's just crazy talk. I will split the bet money with you, right now, fifty-fifty, and we will go back to just how things were! We will be back to how it all started without this love nonsense. See, Ginevra? See how that will fix everything?"

His entire speech could have been nothing but genuine; he stammered in places, spoke too fast and then paused too long. He stumbled over words and fidgeted – yes, Draco Malfoy fidgeted – when he said 'love.' The intensity in those eyes made sense now; he was begging, pleading. His tone was groveling even if he himself was not actually physically doing so. He wanted her to come back. But as what? A fake girlfriend? 

She knew it was impossible; a foolish part of her heart wanted to say yes, but she knew it would only prolong any agony, holding it off to crash upon her ten times worse later. Besides, why on earth did he want her back? He could find a hundred women smarter and just as sexually compatible. If that was all he wanted her for, then why bother with all this? The very thought made her mad; he must just think she was an easy target after everything.

"That will fix nothing," she replied, surprised to hear the ice he had lost in her voice. He looked surprised too. His eyebrows rose, and his eyes widened, and his face crumpled ever-so-slightly with an emotion she did not recognize. What could make that handsome face look so stricken? What emotion could overshadow the defined cheekbones, strong jaw, and patrician attractiveness? She tilted her head, trying to read it, but it was not until he spoke that she realized its name.

"I know you are very angry with me, Ginevra…"

It was shame. He was ashamed. That was the emotion on his face. A Malfoy… ashamed! Ginny stared at the emotion quite openly once she realized what it was. Why, she could create a circus attraction of that very thing – no one would believe that cold, arrogant Draco Malfoy was capable of feeling ashamed of anything!

"…about what happened on Saturday," he looked down momentarily and then back up. His eyes were still glowing with intensity. "But please try to look at it from my vantage point… there we were, having a great day, and you dropped that stink-spell on it by announcing that you thought you loved me. You, Ginevra Weasley, love me, Draco Malfoy. Now that you have had time to think, you realize how ludicrous that is, of course, but at the time, you believed it and I panicked… I know my behavior was unacceptable, but we can forget about it. I will forget your silly proclamation of love, and you will forget my… terrible behavior." He was speaking clearly now, sounding more Draco-like, a little cooler, a little more confident, but Ginny was not fooled. She had seen it in his eyes; he was ashamed of what he had done, and now he was trying to fix it by acting like it could all be okay between them.

Suddenly, all her anger washed away as she looked at him and replenished itself with horrible sadness instead. He was like a lost little boy, feeling guilt and shame for the first time, maybe even thanks to her influencing compassion while they were together, and she wanted to help him deal with it. She really did want to be able to sit down and talk with him about it, hear his opinions, his emotions, his moral issues with what he had done. She would love that insight into the growing character springing from the treacherous Malfoy roots. But… she was in love with him. Seeing those blossoming, beautiful growths of character and morals becoming more a part of him would be salt in a festering wound, too painful. She needed distance from him, needed to peel away, not reattach. Reminding herself of what an amazing man he could be – and was still becoming – after the fires and scars of his childhood and upbringing was a very bad idea. Instead, she needed to keep the image of the arrogant, unashamed bastard who slept with her after her proclamation of love. That image was one she could fall out of love with.

"I can't forget your terrible behavior, Draco. Any more than you can forget hearing those three little words," her voice was gentle, almost pitying. "It's over."

It hurt to actually say those words aloud, but she heard herself repeat them and press on. "It's over, and you have to understand that it was supposed to just be a bet. It isn't fair for either of us to act like it is more, even if we confused ourselves by forgetting earlier."

His face grew strangely still and stony. "So now you've gone from mistakenly thinking you loved me to 'It was just a bet.'"

"You reminded me it was that way when those were the first words you had to say to me Saturday."

She watched a swirl of emotions roll through his eyes even as his face seemed immobile. She wondered if the emotions were truly there or just reflecting the storm she swore was in her own eyes.

"I guess you had better get back in to Potter then. I suppose his jealousy over our 'bet' will have won him back for you." Ah, finally there was the ice that she knew so well, the chill that belied any emotions that might have lurked beneath its surface. She straightened up too, trying to imagine a rod up her back, giving her an iron, unbendable backbone. A backbone like that might keep her from reaching out, just for the hope of touching him again in a goodbye hug. The imagined backbone was not enough to keep her from a charitable comment.

"I'm not interested in Harry. Though you rushing in like a madman to save me might have been a little extreme." She tried a little levity. Neither of them laughed, but his voice softened back up again, revealing another crack in the ice where water could bubble through.

"You did not have to sell yourself to Potter for a fun evening. You could have come by the Manor. The door was still open to you even after your little temper tantrum." His attempt at levity fell as flat as hers, but she tried to laugh, creating a rusty sound. _The other option was selling myself to you._ The thought stung.

They looked at each other awkwardly; their faces contorted with the unspoken goodbyes on their lips. It was all so confusing, such a nasty mess, that no words seemed right. Here she was, in love with him after a bet gone awry, so in love with him that his presence here, even now, was Reparo to her broken heart. Here he was, obviously seeing something in her that he did not want to lose, something she was incapable of giving because she had broken the very deal she had made: this relationship was for business, not pleasure. So here they stood, a mess together and a mess apart.

"Come here, Ginevra," he said, another 'finally said' in this conversation. She must have looked confused, and she did not move so he continued, his voice hitting a note of exasperation, "Just come here. I'm not going to bite you."

She obeyed, moving towards him, and he folded her into his arms in a hug. Her face was squished against his shoulder, and his hold was so tight that she had difficulty breathing but she couldn't bring herself to mind. He smelled good, felt good, felt like the man she had come to know and love over the past month, like the man who was her fairy-tale-that-wasn't, the man riding off into the sunset with her heart. She stifled a few tears that wanted to fall; this would be the last time, and though it was good to know that he truly was the man she had fallen in love with, not the man who had treated her so coldly on Saturday, this also hurt terribly. It was stripping her of the bitterness and anger and leaving her with just her heartbreak.

When he let go, he Disapparated without a word.

 _Goodbye._ The word hung in invisible lettering in the space he left behind.

\-----------------

The Ministry's giant binder full of organizations, clubs and wizarding activities was hardly well-organized. It was a dusty tome that was occasionally opened and then a hundred or so flyers were stuffed inside, and it was forgotten again. When she was assigned to organize that essentially useless binder, Ginny remembered again how trivial her role at the Ministry of Magic was. She was barely even a glorified secretary if she had to sit in her cubicle alone and organize a binder that people looked at maybe once a year. She was surprised her boss had even remembered it existed in order to give her the assignment. He only kept her around because he had a thing for redheads, as far as she could tell. Oh, and perhaps a little fear that it would create strife to fire Arthur Weasley's daughter.

Her shoes, a fabulous pair of electric blue pumps she had bought on a comfort shopping binge, lay on the floor, discarded, her blouse sleeves were rolled up, and her concentration was actually somewhat on her work. It had been a few nights since The Great Goodbye, and Harry was not speaking to her – he seemed to be under the impression that she had somehow planned for that to happen. Imbecile. Draco was not speaking to her either, not that she had tried. They were officially done, she supposed, as sad as that was to think about. A shopping trip and doing her work had been the two things getting her through because Ron and Hermione were not capable of being any help to anyone while they were still sneaking around behind Harry's back. Add to that her need to avoid her crazy threesome of gossipy co-workers who were always trying to tell her some story that they had heard about Draco and what a bad place he was in… well, her cubicle had started to become a sanctuary of sorts.

 _Bingbott's Broomstick Brigade._ Well, that flyer definitely went in the B section. _Vanderleigh's Cabbage Patch._ That went in the V's… oh, wait, no it went in the trash because it was not an organization, club or wizarding activity.

It was weird that mindless work was becoming such a comforting activity. She slipped into a meditative state, filing over a hundred flyers in an hour, seconds slipping into minutes without her noticing their passage.

Her eyes widened when her fingers paused on a piece of folded card stock. The name on it leapt out at her.

"You have got to be kidding me," she murmured, reading it in shock.

**Draco Malfoy Dumpees Support Group**

Come join us on Wednesday nights at seven.

Share your story and a good meal with people who understand.

_Room A56 in the Old Showbourne Complex._

The flyer even had a caricature of Draco sitting smugly on a broom; the caricature waved at Ginny. In her shock, she waved back. She looked at the date on the card. It had been printed a good two years ago at this point. Surely such a thing had been a joke, just a group of friends looking to be funny, and even if it had been real, surely it no longer existed, years later. She glanced up at the clock on the wall. It was Wednesday, and the little hand on the clock was getting very close to the jubilant Quitting Time label.

Why not put on something jazzy and go out and see what the hell this thing was all about? Why not?

She sure could use a good laugh, and if things worked out, a good cry might not hurt either.

\---------------

It was real.

The Draco Malfoy Dumpees Support Group was real and apparently still thriving even after two years and having been relegated to a musty tome of flyers. She had shown up dressed in what she considered to be appropriate clothes, nothing too dolled up but not looking frumpy or underdressed either. Her green top contrasted beautifully with her loosely curled red hair, her jeans were tight but not too tight, and she had slipped on heels again to give her a little confidence boost. She told herself it was pure curiosity about such a strange group that had made her desire to go, but in reality, she knew it was her interest in the other women's stories… and an interest in seeing how many of them there were. There was a little glamour in having dated someone so well-known.

This particular evening, the meal consisted of various light or fluffy finger foods. She sniffed a pumpkin pastry and put it back. It smelled like cardboard and didn't flake under her fingers. So the flyer had lied about the good meal part; she wondered if anything on the table had more than 100 calories in it. The thought of buttery grilled cheese suddenly had massive appeal. There were seven women there by the time she arrived, and they had taken seats in an Alcoholics Anonymous-style circle, chatting about trivial things. Their familiarity made it clear the group met regularly; they discussed books, careers, and mutual friends. Draco Malfoy had not come up in conversation yet, and Ginny found she was holding her breath waiting for it. 

"—don't know how I feel about this new job as a photographer for the Daily Prophet," one of the women, whose name was Valerie, had said. She, like many of the women present, was a buxom blonde with long legs, and she was dressed similarly to the other women as well, in nice tailored blouses and trousers, instead of jeans. Ginny definitely smelled of a lower class than these women, with the possible exception of a petite little brunette who was not speaking to anyone and was wearing sweatpants. The others mostly ignored her, Ginny noticed, while being very polite, probably just because they were interested in hearing her story.

"You'll be great, Valerie. You always are, and besides, it is not like you need the money," A woman named Brenda replied in a husky I-have-smoked-too-many-cigarettes-in-my-life purr.

"Very true." Valerie uncrossed her long legs, a strangely business-like gesture from a woman who was obviously a millionaire dabbling in work just for fun. "Well… now that we have chitchatted and eaten, it is time to get down to our main order of business. We need to discuss why we're here since I'm sure that's why Ginny has joined us. I am certain we are all interested in hearing her story, considering… what we have heard."

Ginny gulped; she knew that she and Draco's relationship, though private between them, had been wildly speculated on by any number of people. Sometimes coming out of Kniltholder's, she had spotted someone snapping a picture, perhaps for a trashy tabloid that gave a damn about "The Wizarding World's Sexiest Bachelor," or even occasionally for the gossip section of the Daily Prophet, written by none other than the recently-returned Rita Skeeter. She had predicted true love and eternal bliss for the couple, as a matter of fact. God only knew what these women, women who obviously had an extensive emotional and psychological issue with Draco Malfoy, thought they knew about the relationship.

"What exactly have you heard?" Ginny tried, flashing a sweet smile. She could play these head games.

"Oh, darling, we would never spread that vicious gossip to you. We will just wait to hear it straight from you." Brenda echoed with an equally false and equally saccharine smile. Ginny cursed silently; she couldn't play these head games as well as she thought.. Why had she come here? She should have known she would have to talk, and she didn't want to. She wanted to hear their stories, not spill her own. Especially since there was no way she could tell the truth about her story. It was far too shameful on so many different levels, and it was far too private. Hot blood spilled into her cheeks, sending her into a flaming blush.

"There is no reason to be shy. That is what this group is for," Valerie reassured, but her eyes had no warmth and offering of help. Ginny realized suddenly that these women did not like her; they saw her as an enemy, and she had no idea why.

"Well… we went to Hogwarts together, so we knew each other from then, and we reconnected – well, sort of connected for the first time – over a month ago, and we went to dinner, and it was just… a good idea. We got along well and decided to give it a try. Then it no longer worked out, so… here I am." Ginny's words tumbled out, such a gross understatement that they practically became a lie. She hated the sound of them; how dare she even make it seem that blasé and nonchalant? It had been an epic for both of them.

"A month? I did not realize it had been so long…" Valerie frowned. Her lips formed a petulant curve.

"That's really not very long. Harry and I dated for years."

"I dated Draco for two weeks," Valerie replied curtly.

"Four dates."

"Two dates."

"Six dates over the course of a year."

The chorus of replies were all short numbers, and they were also accompanied by a certain snobbishness of tone that plainly stated: "And I am better than you." Even sweatpants girl employed that tone, which Ginny really considered offensive.

Ginny felt pretty proud of her month now, and she wished she could tell them more, now that they had slipped back into conversation amongst themselves. She wished she could tell them how many nights they had shared a bed, laughing and talking and playing, not having sex. She wished she could tell them that it had been an awful "breakup" on both sides and that both of their hearts were broken in a way, just for different reasons. She wanted to exert her dominance over these beautiful wealthy women, not because they were beautiful and wealthy but because they dared to believe they had more of a right to Draco than she did. Jealousy and pettiness reared their ugly heads and stuck up their pig-shaped noses, and she contained them but enjoyed their presence. It was good to know she thought herself good enough for the legendary Draco Malfoy.

"If only he could bring a girl home to the Manor instead of the furnished flat he keeps for dating purposes…" Brenda sighed a lustful sigh.

"What?" Ginny said, taken aback.

"Well, Ginny darling, you didn't think you were the only one excluded from the Manor, did you?" Brenda giggled, a laugh so husky from cigarettes that it resembled a cough more than a giggle. "Draco never brings women to the family estate. It is the Holy Grail of dating him, if you get to see the Manor."

Ginny stewed this thought over, sitting back in her chair, putting a hand under her chin thoughtfully. She remembered their second date, dinner at the Manor, served by Draco Malfoy himself at a cozy intimate table. Surely these women were wrong about the significance of the Manor.

Then Ginny felt the same sensation she had felt one fateful Saturday not too long ago. A realization was coming to her from somewhere very far back in her head and heart. She waited for it while a barrage of images hit her.

Draco, chuckling in her office and talking about a bet he had made with friends. Draco, buying her a beautiful dress and paying her compliments. Draco, acting captivated by her body, counting orgasms as a means of enjoyment. Draco, letting her pick whatever color of paint she wanted for the living room in the manor. Draco, letting her dismiss the house elves for the evening. Draco, drinking and confessing his darkest secret to her. Draco, fearfully holding her while she cried. Draco, punching her ex-boyfriend for touching her.

Draco, begging her to come back to him in an alley. Draco, stumbling and stubbled and desperate, pleading with her to be a part of his life.

The realization arrived in a flash of color and pomp and circumstance, landing in her mind like a much-awaited savior.

_Draco Malfoy loved her too._

She was suddenly more sure of it than she had ever been of anything in her life. He might not know it; perhaps his realization hadn't come. But it was true. No man could seem that in love, that blissfully content with a relationship and that desperately upset when it ended, unless it was true. A smile curved onto her lips. He had not begged her to come back for sex or friendship or anything else; he had asked for love.

How could she have expected him to know it? He didn't know how to love; no one had ever taught him. But without any lessons, he had managed it, like the child who thinks he needs his parents' steadying hands on his bike even though they let go about thirty seconds ago. He had not realized it yet, but he was in love with her.

Draco Malfoy loved her, and suddenly the world looked a lot brighter.

_Thank you, Draco Malfoy Dumpees Support Group. You're all idiots, and that's probably why he fell in love with me._

Ginny stood right up and marched out of the room without a word, leaving behind the surprised, disapproving women whose tongues were waggling before she even cleared the doorway.


	10. Subterfuge and Sex

Ginny had spent enough time with a Malfoy to have developed a sense of subterfuge. Realizations were meaningless without accompanying action. Without changing her clothes or touching her hair, she had sat down on her couch, sipped a glass of wine and concocted her course of action. It was a flawless, brilliant, cruel plan – one which she would come clean about later but that right now was the only way to avoid additional unnecessary pain, trauma and waiting on her part. He deserved a little pain; he was a Malfoy. So her diabolical plan, which was born of the crazy love that had taken root inside of them both, was going into motion… as soon as she could find where she had set her wand and Apparate over to the Manor.

That took a while; when she had gotten home from the support group, she had tossed her wand and handbag haphazardly and danced her way to the kitchen for a bottle of wine, humming a wicked Top 40 hit. A display like that made finding the wand later a little trickier than necessary, but finally, she had the wand in hand. She fluffed her hair, checked her teeth in her mirror, and Apparated to Malfoy Manor. She was delighted but not surprised to find that she was still looped into the charm; it heartened her to know that he still had his door open for her. She arrived in the Manor, not even bothering to Apparate outside and ring the bell. One of the house elves, a lithe delicate pink-pillowcase-wearing elf, smiled up at her. Ginny had the fleeting thought that she would free the house elves here one day, a confident, authoritative fleeting thought that warmed her from the inside out.

"Hi Miss Weasley," the elf whispered, "It's good to see you back. He's in the living room."

"Thank you," she whispered back as the elf scurried away, a smile twitching at her lips. A woman without the security she had suddenly come up with might have been concerned that there was another woman in the Manor, but she knew better. He would be alone, probably drinking a glass of Scotch and reading a book. She walked down the hall, letting her heels click on the hard flooring, and turned the corner into the living room. She repeated a confident mantra in her head: he loves me too, he loves me too, he loves me too.

The mantra was replaced by a wave of sudden, exquisite happiness when she saw the living room. The walls were rich terracotta red, and there was all new furniture to match, luxe yellow fabric that made the whole room so warm and inviting. It was also Gryffindor, in a very subtle way, not that Draco would think of that. The thing he had thought about and then decided to do was to paint the room the color she had picked out that awful Saturday. She imagined him in those work clothes, scraping and painting the walls and dragging the furniture and thinking of her. This is what he had done while she drank away her sorrow; he had continued designing his home the way she liked it. How had he not yet realized what all this meant about them?

He was sitting on the couch, smiling at a novel he was reading, with – as she had predicted – a tumbler of Scotch beside him. He looked up when she walked in with an expression that mixed shock and a strange sort of happiness.

"Ginevra, did anyone ever tell you that it is incredibly rude not to knock when you enter someone else's home?" He drawled, raising an eyebrow. She could tell he was not stretching for that tone; it was easier to fall into the "normal" banter when they were both here in this house where so much of their love had been made, though not in the typical making-love sense.

"I was raised in a Burrow, as you have reminded me a hundred times before," she retorted, unable to avoid the twitch of a smile at the corner of her mouth.

"True. Now, have you come to sit down and spend some time with me, or is this some sort of business visit?" Oh, his voice was cold as ice now. The word business became an icicle intended to wound her. He was obviously still very offended by her claiming that they were not supposed to be any more than a deal made between enemies.

"I came to… talk to you. About our conversation in the alley," she replied, forcing herself to shift as if uncomfortable. She was no actress, but this part still needed to be played just right. He needed to believe that she had changed her mind from the other night, not that she was trying to change his.

He looked intrigued and motioned for her to sit down on the opposite end of the couch. She followed his guiding motion and sat down. The new couch was comfortable, cozy; she had to fight the urge to smile again because she foresaw many nights curled up like this in their future, if she played her con right.

"Go ahead, Ginevra," he prompted.

She breathed in slowly. "You're right. It is silly to think that I love you – how could I? But we are good friends and we are happy… together, and we should just do it that way. Friends with benefits, if you will. Not that you worded it that way because you're more eloquent than I am, but…" She swallowed sharply as if trying to disguise her hesitancy.

Draco looked strangely strangled now, a muscle in his jaw tight. She recognized the conflict in his eyes, one that indicated he felt that he should smile and be thrilled with what she said but was bothered anyway. 

"I did not say friends with benefits because that is a crass and ill-fitting label."

"Well… it's the label that fits but… focus on what I'm saying, Draco," she replied, putting a false but hopefully genuine-looking smile. It must have been real enough because the kind of Draco smirk that sometimes passed for a smile suddenly appeared on his lips.

"You are saying you're back," he echoed. She nodded. Draco's eyes were on hers for a long moment, and she felt the heat rise from her toes straight up through her body until it seared her heart and then her brain. She didn't even have time to truly register the intensity of the heat in his pale eyes before he was coming across the couch to her, all in an instant. He crushed his mouth to hers, crushed her body under his. He kissed her mouth and touched her soul; the kiss was tender, passionate, ecstatic and exuberant all at once. He kissed her like she was the woman he had been waiting for his whole life, and she lost all sense of the acting game she had planned on playing, the game of being aloof, and lost herself in his kiss.

He leaned back, breaking the physical, live-wire connection of their mouths. "Welcome back, Ginny."

They tumbled into another kiss, but this one was less tender… instead, it was fiercely sexual, toe-curling and goosebump-inducing. Ginny Weasley suddenly knew she was going to have sex with Draco Malfoy again. Screw being aloof first. Screw acting to lead him to a realization. Screw everything except this moment and getting making love right tonight.

\-----------------

This time when Draco Malfoy laid her down to the bed, hot lips smothering hers, there was no coldness. In fact, when she banged her elbow on the bed post, they both laughed into the kiss, hands twined, naked bodies against one another. 

"Ouch!" She admonished through her giggling. "You're not supposed to find my pain amusing."

He was laughing too. "I'll make it up to you, Ginevra, as soon as I catch my breath from the hilarity of how inelegant this is turning out to be," he chuckled. Suddenly, she managed to stall her laughing and just smile at him.

"I don't want elegance in my sex with you, thank you very much," she retorted playfully. "I want inelegance. Hot, sweaty, orgasmic inelegance."

He chose not to respond with words. Instead he kissed her again, another breathless and dizzying kiss, and they let skin slide on skin and let the laughter subside – for now – and be replaced by nothing but the sound of their breathing. She touched him with hungry hands, and he kissed her with hungry lips, and they moved slowly, no rushing or pushing. Her fingers trailed along the refined muscles of his back, drinking it in as a blissful reminder of what and who she had been missing since they separated, and her lower lip reveled in being nipped by his teeth. He held her hips under his hands, fingertips sinking into the soft, giving flesh, and they both smiled again into their kiss.

When his hand slid low, gently, he still did not rush. He stroked circles on her thighs, caressed closer and closer to where her body was suddenly pleading for him to touch. Nothing could have distracted her from him in a moment like this… not even the fact that she was letting the plan to be distant and cold like he had been on The Saturday fall to the wayside. Somehow, this was more important than that. Even if this did not immediately drag a realization of love from him, it was right to be here, reveling in that love he did not yet realize. He crooked a finger across her clit, lightly, and then suddenly he was taking her with his hand, pushing and sliding his fingers into warm depths. She closed her eyes, bit her lower lip, rocked her hips into him, moaned, and suddenly he stopped.

Opening her eyes, she saw that he was frozen with a look of strange surprise on his face. 

"Don't moan like that if you want this foreplay to last more than a few seconds…" He whispered, arousal almost too intense to bear spelled out on his aristocratic features. She shook her head.

"I won't moan again," she replied, voice husky from the pleasure still rippling through her. The foreplay was worth it, worth the wait and worth the effort not to moan. His hands felt too good to give up just yet; they played her like a piano they knew oh-so-well, and she loved it. He returned to his delicious work, and the melody he was stroking out soared until another moan escaped, another throaty, rich, passionate moan. True to his word, his fingers slid away.

There were a million things he could have said as he moved his body over hers and looked into her eyes that could have ruined the moment, things that could have been reminiscent of the last time that was so wrong, but he chose none of them. Instead, he spoke quietly and sincerely, "I missed you, Ginny." His voice, deep and genuine, was not speaking about sexually, though the need there was apparent too. No, his tone was clear. He needed her. In his life. She tilted her lips up to catch his, and he pushed his hips down to enter her in the same joyous moment.

Like a classical pianist on an elegant grand piano, Draco moved against her, hands on her hips, eyes on hers, and he made the sound of their breathing, the thump of their heartbeats, the rush of their skin into a symphonic masterpiece with her. Together, they composed it with each rise and fall of their bodies, like keys on a piano, vibrating against each other like the strands of a string instrument. With understanding eyes, they tried every chord and note imaginable without ruining it with unnecessary words; her climax came strong and sure, but he did not falter, continuing to carry her with him on this pleasure trip. Finally, when she was on top, legs pressed into the bed on either side of his hips, hands braced against his strong shoulders, hair in a tumble around her face, she took him to the top, thrusting against him until he went weak beneath her in blissful release. Then she too fell spent onto him.

They breathed hard, they lay together, and he slid his arms back around her and held her tight. His lips moved against her hair, whispering something she could not hear over her own heartbeat. In fact, peaceful happiness was starting to fill her so completely that she felt her eyes drooping shut. With his arms around her and his heart beating beneath her, she fell asleep to sweet, sweet dreams.

\----------------

Waking up in the arms of the man you love is usually a wonderful sensation, but it is tempered a bit when you wake up and realize that your entire lower body, ass-cheeks to legs, is asleep from having not moved for almost eight hours. If this pin-pricking, nagging, cactus-poking curse was not enough, Ginevra Weasley had it combined with an unfortunate realization that she had woken up over an hour late for work, unshowered and with sleepy limbs. This meant there was little to no chance she was making it into the office for dead-end filing today, which was not entirely upsetting but did mean that she was going to be given very nasty looks when she did go back to the office the next day. Draco was still asleep, too, when she first opened her eyes. He looked supremely human, conked out on his back with his mouth open and the slightest hint of a snore; she tried to decide if that was a turn-off.

It wasn't. Even a Draco Malfoy snore was sexier than anything another man had to offer. It was no wonder he had once been on that magazine cover.

She tried to focus on the exquisite sexiness he possessed, even though his current position was not his most flattering, but even that was not enough to distract her from the extraordinary pain of the pins and needles in her sleeping legs. So, she cautiously scooted herself sideways away from Draco to put her tingling feet on the floor. _Upsy-daisy, Ginny-girl,_ she told herself as she wrapped the sheet around herself, leaving Draco naked, exposed and likely a bit chilly on his bed. In her toga-sheet, she attempted to put her weight on her legs, but they were not interested in waking up for the job of walking. Her first step: wobbly. Her second step: shaky. Her third step: no better. Her fourth step: did not happen because she toppled over in a dramatic crash.

She squeaked as she hit the floor.

"Ginevra, I have no interest in waking up to this chaos," Draco mumbled sleepily from the bed, one eye opening. "Come back to bed until you have learned to walk to the loo more elusively." 

He extended a hand as if to help her to her feet, even though the hand was just hanging haphazardly over the side of the bed and was nowhere close to reaching her. She shimmy-crawled her way back to the bed and hauled herself back into bed without using her legs.

"I'm like Lieutenant Dan," she informed Draco.

"That's nice, love," he murmured, burying his head in the pillow.

"Do you even know who Lieutenant Dan is?"

"I am sleeping."

"You're replying."

"You are a child. Go back to sleep."

She partially obliged, curling back into him and tucking her nose into his neck to just lay and cuddle until he woke up more. She had been on the receiving end enough to know not to push her luck too much; he was not a morning person. Besides, the smell of him after last night's sex that it made her perfectly content to just lay against him in silence until he was ready to tolerate her muggle movie references. Finally, he stirred again, turning to his side, propping himself on one elbow and looking down at her. She grinned up at him, but he didn't grin back. In fact, he looked slightly green.

"Draco, you look sick," she said cautiously. He did not respond or move at all. "Draco?"

"I went into a downward spiral when you left. I realized I couldn't function without you. I don't mind your morning breath or your muggle-loving or your weird habit of putting too much sugar in your tea," he was speaking in a strangely quiet voice as if to himself. He pressed on in the same voice. "I cannot imagine what I would do if you ever left, and I think I would just follow you if you did. I redesigned my house for you so that my living room was fucking Gryffindor colors. I had the best sex of my life with you last night, and you didn't even pull any acrobatic moves. I do not care that you are not a model. I would rather have your body than any of the models I've had before; you turn me on way more. I even ate dinner with your family and do not care that you have seen my mother. My God, I am even saying all these nice things to you before my morning cup of coffee." He paused and looked at her intently. Now he seemed to be speaking to her. "I must love you. I do. I do love you."

If he expected Ginny to be surprised like him, his expectation was not being met. Instead, she made a face and said, "That's why you look sick? Because you love me?" She fought the smile that wanted to twitch at the corners of her mouth.

He shook his head. "No, I look sick because I love you and I almost fucking lost you because I was too stupid to realize it," he replied seriously. Ginny looked at him and could see that was indeed the truth. That was the reason for the I'm-about-to-vomit expression on his face; the realization that he had almost lost her, not the realization that he loved her. She smiled, a smile that brought happy tears to her eyes. She should have been ashamed of them, but she wasn't. 

"You mean it, right? Because I lied last night… I do love you. I love you so much even though you're a stupid, rich, snobby, Slytherin bastard."

"I mean it. Even though you're a low-class, foul-mouthed, Gryffindor bitch. Oh and manipulative. I forgot to add manipulative after that stunt you pulled last night."

Their eyes met, and they both kept smiling. He reached up to wipe away one of the tears from her cheek; he held the drop on his finger, taking care not to spill it, and then wiped it on her nose. She chuckled tearily.

"Why are you crying, Ginevra? Is it because you've realized that now that you know that I am capable of love I will have to kill you?" He teased, smirking.

"No, I'm crying because I've realized the fate is much, much worse than that."

"How much worse?"

"I'll have to marry you."

Suddenly his voice grew very, very tender. "Yes, Ginny, you will."

Maybe she was wrong, but Ginny thought she saw some mist in his eyes too. She tilted her head; nope, she was wrong. No mist but definite sincerity, which was all the better. The devil didn't cry.

He pulled her in for a kiss, and she wondered how she had gotten here, in love with a man who was not the man of her dreams, a man who instead was something much stranger, much more wonderful and much more real. He was the man who she wanted to spend all her waking moments with.

This was what she wanted. Draco Malfoy, a real live Satan with the heart of a very wicked saint.

She broke the kiss to add something very important:

"You still owe me half of the bet money, Lucifer. When I make a deal with the devil, I expect to come out on top."

Of course, Draco added a zinger of his own:

"Come out on top? Why, Ginevra, I believe you did that very thing just last night."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can see, very little remains to be said. Just a lovely little epilogue to close out the story of this bet!


	11. Epilogue

On their tenth anniversary, Ginny had given him a strangely-shaped piece of purple candy, claiming it could make all of his fantasies come true. Draco was fairly used to her lunacy at that point in the relationship, so he obligingly stuck the strange little concoction in the underwear drawer, gave her a kiss, and told her his only fantasy was uninterrupted sex. She agreed enthusiastically, and they enjoyed an entire evening of playtime for grown-ups while the children spent the night with Gram and Pop at the Burrow. That was nearly three years ago at this point, but the candy had neither rotted nor disintegrated in its hiding spot.

Today, Draco had woken up and gotten dressed for work, all business in his suit and tie. He tripped twice on the stairs over toys, one of which was a wet, soapy rubber duck that nearly caused a wipeout, and he got down to the kitchen to find that the coffee had not brewed, a problem he had never had back when he had house elves. He frowned his way through a glass of milk, glared at a trail of crumbs on the floor, and slunk off to work in a very foul mood indeed.

At the office, he meandered through nasty piles of paperwork, listened to complaints from customers who were claiming his services came too pricey, and found that his personal bathroom was flooded. What good was it to be the CEO of a high-profile public relations and marketing firm if no one would fix your bathroom when the toilet overflowed? By the end of the day, his frown had gone from temporary to permanent, so etched on his face he couldn't move it if he wanted to. The Manor was a welcoming sight when he finally returned that evening, but upon entering the front door, he was greeted by silence.

"Nobody thought to be home for me," he muttered grouchily and walked into the empty kitchen. He was making himself a sandwich when he spotted them through the window in the yard. The picnic table back there, one of the many Manor additions over the years, was laden with dinner. He spotted a big pot that he suspected contained French Onion soup, his favorite. Gratitude surged through him in a sudden wave, accompanied by shame for ever thinking a negative thought when he entered his home.

Ginny was wearing a green sundress, thin-strapped and low enough to make his heart do a funny jump in his chest even after all this time but high enough and long enough to be mommy-appropriate. She was chasing two-and-a-half-year-old Kyan – a result of their uninterrupted tenth anniversary sex – around the table as he brandished a large serving spoon. Draco recognized the utensil as a piece of the family-crested heirloom silver. Even through the window, Draco could see the tell-tale Malfoy smirk on the lad's face. Five-year-old Glorianna was seated at the table organizing the silverware; she was a little lady, with her mum's fiery hair but refined manners that matched neither of her parents. Then there was seven-year-old Julius, sitting under the tree with a portable wizard's chess set, lip tucked between his teeth, forehead furrowed as he concentrated. The eldest Malfoy child's life goal was to beat his father at their favorite game. Julius had his father's eyes under his father's blonde hair above his father's aristocratic features.

In fact, Draco remembered when Julius was born, how Ginny had looked at the baby in utter surprise and said, "Was I even there for making him? He looks just like you!" He had been bursting with pride; that first moment of fatherhood, a moment much more sharp, vivid and intense than any he had experienced through his wife's pregnancy, had made him suddenly certain that he would never be his father. The fears that had haunted him since they first slipped wedding bands on each other's fingers vanished. He knew that he would be a father of hugs and kisses and games. He would be a father who knew how to love because he was married to the very woman who had taught him how.

He left his sandwich fixings on the counter and headed for that backyard scene, but then he paused. He remembered what an awful day he'd had, he remembered the tripping on the stairs and the clogged work toilet, and he looked back out at his family in the backyard, smiling and playing. He remembered the strangely shaped piece of purple candy his wife had claimed could give him any fantasy he wanted. Thinking of that, he walked upstairs – dodging the toys – and fished it out of his underwear drawer. It looked wicked in his hand, like a temptation to see what else he could have.

Tucking it in his fist, he strode back down the stairs, out the back door and into the backyard. Ginny's face lit up when she saw him, and she outstretched her arms, smelling like home cooking and motherhood and yet still like the firecracker who had battled his seduction so long ago. He tucked her into his arms, kissed the top of her head and whispered, "I had a shitty day."

"Tell me all about it tonight once we put the kids to bed?" She replied, and his lips curved into a smile against her hair. That was the perfect thing to say. She wasn't rushing him to spit out a brief summary of his day right now and get to the family. She was going to wait until he could talk as long as he wanted. He kissed her head again and took a step back to look at her. He fished into his pocket and pulled out the candy.

"If I ate this, would this fix my toilet at work?" He demanded. She looked bemused, and the kids, who had all jumped up when Daddy got home, looked confused.

"Yes. It would fix your toilet at work." She chuckled, but her laughter would not bother him. He opened his mouth, popped the candy in, and sucked. It tasted like grape Coca-Cola with an occasional pop like orange juice, not a particularly pleasant flavor, but he persisted as it quickly shrank to nothing in his mouth.

"You really just wasted that on fixing a toilet? It could do anything!" She admonished, shaking her head. The corners of her mouth twitched with amusement though at his puckered facial expression from the candy's unfortunate flavor.

Draco gave her what he hoped was his trademark 'Hush, loony woman' look and replied, "Do I look like I want world domination? I just want a damn toilet that works."

"Damn! Damn! Damn!" Kyan echoed proudly, using his toddler senses to quickly assess which word in that sentence he should not repeat and doing it anyway.

"Don't say that, Ky," Glori said quietly, and Julius tugged lightly at her red ponytail.

"You're not his mom, so quit telling him what to do!"

Draco saw the need for parental interference had begun about thirty seconds ago and quickly scooped Kyan up onto his shoulders and caught the two older children's gazes.

"You kids didn't really make this dinner for me all by yourselves, did you?" He asked with a wicked twinkle in his eyes that he knew only Ginny would understand.

"Yeah!" Kyan shouted, triumphantly throwing his small fists in the air.

"Mum did most of it, but we helped where we could," Julius qualified with an impish grin. "Which meant I made the French Onion soup almost all by myself. She just did the magic parts!"

"I set everything up on the table before Ky messed it up," Glori said.

"Well, you all did a fantastic job as far as how it looks, but how's it going to taste?" He teased.

"Great!" All three children chorused together. The family clambered to begin, Draco getting a small plate for Kyan while Ginny ladled the hot soup out for the two older children. Once everyone had a plate, they sat down to eat. The kids had not told their father a lie; it was all delicious. But as Draco looked at his quietly smiling wife, he suspected he had no one but her to truly thank for that. Sometimes he thought he had no one but her to truly thank for anything.

"You might have had a bad day, but you must be having a pretty good life when you're willing to waste something like that piece of candy on a clogged toilet," Ginny teased, blowing on Glori's spoonful of soup for her. Draco watched her administering motherly cares like it was the easiest thing in the world without ever losing her focus on their conversation. She was awfully angelic for someone who did such naughty things in bed.

"I don't need anything else," he said sincerely, looking around. There might be toys on the stairs, little to no time for sex and private conversation, and his wife may be distinctly softer all over than she was before three children popped out of her, but there were hugs and kisses, Malfoy Manor looked like a fairy-tale home, and every night, he crawled into bed next to the one woman who had made it all worthwhile.

When he thought of the thousands of Galleons his friends had paid him in that bet to sleep with Ginny so long ago, he always smiled. He should have been the one to pay them.

He was a reformed devil with three kids and a wife who hadn't given up on blowjobs after over a decade.

And now his toilet wasn't even clogged. What a happily ever after.

He leaned over and kissed Ginny's cheek. "I love you."

"I love you too," she replied with a smile.

And didn't that just say it all?

**Author's Note:**

> This is a light rewriting/punctuation clean-up of an old piece that needed work. Hope it makes you laugh if you join in the adventure!


End file.
